Rocco Is Raw Meat

Betty comes to the aid of a battered girlfriend

[Author's Note: This time, I give a special thanks to Estherina for the story idea. If anyone has any story ideas or plot synopsis involving any of my characters, please send them to shrewsberry@juno.com.]

Hello again, everybody, my name is Betty Conrad, owner of Barefoot Betty's Auto Repair Shop. The garage was given that name for one reason, it's my name, and as for the other reason, you just have to look down at my feet. Except for a few circumstances like church, special events, and total engine overhauls, I don't wear shoes; I avoid them like the plague. I don't like shoes, but I love cars. I love repairing them and rebuilding them and driving them. I talk shop about cars the same way some women discuss fashion styles, and armchair jocks debate the merits of the upcoming basketball or football team. I'll say it again, I love cars!

I also have a reputation of being the toughest woman in town. I didn't apply for the title, mind you, but it seems to be a title that was thrust upon me. In the telling of this tale, that little tidbit would come out sometime, so let's get it out of the way now. I started to get it when I whacked some people across the head who were tearing up my garage. I was a prime contender for the title when I sent three people who attacked me to the emergency room. The title was mine when I came within a hair's breath of beating a man to death. Except for the last one, they were all self-defense.

When you earn a title like this, all sorts of jerks come from under the woodwork to see if you're worthy of the title. Men and women, bullies, convicts, self-proclaimed "experts' in whatever martial art they claim to know, gang leaders and even gangs come to me to try to take my so-called title. I even tried giving the title to them willingly, but no, even the most dishonorable folks want to gain it through "honorable' combat. I end up beating them to a pulp, and it's back to business as usual until I'm challenged again.

This recent encounter was different, however. The previous fights I engaged in came down to a matter of defending yourself or getting pulped, self-preservation in other words. This time, instead of fighting for myself, I fought on someone's behalf, on behalf of someone who couldn't fight back. And it all started with a mugging, correction, an attempted mugging.

A few weeks ago, myself, along with my new assistant mechanic, Irena Bresnev were conducting business as usual as we were doing what we know best, working on cars. Now Irena would be a woman who would love to have the title of the toughest woman in town, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyway, I was expecting a package from the United Parcel Service, otherwise known as UPS. They were going to bring me my Bowflex# exercise machine at any day. My normal routine with my weights (which consisted of two pistons I took out of a semi) weren't getting the job done anymore, and I started working out at a friend's personal gym. My friend however, lived across town, and considering I like working out before I shower and get dressed in the morning, it made things rather difficult. So one night while I was watching TV, I saw the Bowflex commercial, realized this meant I could workout in the morning again, dialed the number, and sent my money.

Normally when UPS brings something as large as a piece of exercise equipment, they would like to have someone home before they drop it off. In this case, when they dropped by my house at mid-afternoon, no one was home. Of course, if the delivery guy had bothered to look slightly over to the right of my house, he would have seen my garage and saw that somebody was home. In fact, we both saw the van take off. The driver was a new guy, so nobody told him about my place yet.

I looked over at my assistant, shrugged, and asked her, "Would you like to go with me to the UPS outlet?"

"Sure, there's not anything good on TV, anyway," Irena said.

Since the outlet closed at 5:30 and we close shop around 5 o'clock, there wouldn't be much time to waste. After our workday was over, we jumped in Irena's pickup truck in our work coveralls, still wearing the grease, dust, and grime of our labor, and headed out. I'm sure we must have been a real sight to the employees at the outlet; two greasy and grimy barefoot women in filthy blue coveralls with blue baseball caps. We probably looked like we came out of a Dennis the Menace comic strip. Anyway, I flashed my ID, the only clean thing on me, we took the box of exercise equipment, and carried it out to the truck.

We have just finished laying the box in the back to the pickup when a tall man dressed in a black jogging suit and red toboggan walked up to us, pulled out a gun, and demanded us to give him all our money. This must have been the parking lot robber I heard about on the news recently. This man would come up to unsuspecting victims returning from their shopping, and rob them. He would then run from the scene after the damage is done. I guess that explains the running outfit he's wearing.

Maybe I'm generalizing things, but lately I've come to the opinion that crooks are stupid. I understand there are situations that cause some people to turn to crime in desperation, but there must be something about crime that rots your brain, because they don't seem to be done by the sharpest knives in the drawer.

Take this genius here. If he really wanted to make some money from robbing these poor folks, shouldn't he rob them before they go into the store? You generally have more money before you shop than after you shop. Another question is why is he haunting this place instead of the stores in the shopping malls. Well they were probably combing the parking lots looking for him, so I'll give him that one. My third question is of all the people to attempt to rob, why was he picking on two women who looked like they ran away from home and slept under a bridge for two weeks? Did we look like we had money?

That's enough speculation; let me get to the part where we hurt him.

As the man waved his gun around, I turned around and held my hands up, while Irena jumped down from the truck, moved beside me and did the same thing. I told him that we just came from work, and we didn't have any money on us. The man gave us a sneer; you know that sneer men give women when they're thinking with another brain other than the one that God gave them?

(You ladies out there probably understood that one. For the guys who didn't get it, you may want to sit down and have a conversation with your folks, because I'm not going to make it any plainer than that.)

Anyway, he sneered, and said, "Then maybe there's something else you ladies can give me. Maybe a little fun to make my day?"

I should've known, the man wanted to have some fun to supplement his daily activity. Not only was this man stupid, he also had no taste whatsoever. Of all the women he could've hit on, he picked two of the dirtiest ones he could find? Oh, I wanted to whack him across the head so bad. It turned out though someone else would perform that task.

There's something I forgot to mention about us. I am a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do (that's karate with lots of kicks), along with a fundamental knowledge of boxing given by my father. Irena is a master of Combat Sambo, a Russian equivalent of judo, and she was an undefeated cage fighter in that country where she grew up. From what I'm told about those matches, there's no weight limit, no height specification, and almost no rules. So for a little brown haired girl (she's 5'5) to win these matches and go undefeated, she must be a little mean. Lately, we both took up Krav Maga, a martial art that was developed by the Israelis and is very brutal, whew! It's relatively simple, your ten-year-old brother or a little old lady can learn the art. Of course, keep in mind that after a few lessons, that little old lady will know how to break bones and kill you on the spot if you mess with her Social Security check. We both love it, and we figured we would put it into good use soon.

I was contemplating how to disarm him so I could kick him silly, when Irena moved closer to him, speaking to him in that bubbly voice of hers, using what I call a "dumb Russian accent.' Irena's English is excellent, but sometimes as a joke, she uses that stereotypical Russian accent you hear in war movies when the Russian soldier would speak very choppy English. Irena would always get a big laugh when she watched these movies.

Irena moved closer and said, "You want fun? I want fun. We can have fun?" She started stroking his gun hand.

Once you take the grease off, Irena is a very attractive young lady. That also makes her all the more lethal, because the last thing you expect from a cute little brown-haired girl is for her to knock your lights out. Meanwhile, our would-be-robber looked like he won the lottery (maybe he should take that up after he gets out of the hospital). He looked down at Irena and grinned.

"Yes, we'll have fun. We all will have fun," he said.

I was undecided between rolling my eyes at his gullibility and laughing out loud seeing Irena pour on the charm. I really got a kick out of what happened next. Irena, using her left hand, took her finger, moved it slowly down the robbers' chest, and stroked the man's gun hand with her right hand.

"Yes, I'll have fun," she said. Then she placed her right hand on top of his gun hand, and twisted it.

It happened so fast, I barely saw it, and I was standing right there. Irena did a sudden twist of his hand, and the next thing I know, I heard a blood-curdling scream from our crook, and the gun falls to the ground, unfired.

"Yes, I have fun now," Irena said with a demonic grin on her face.

I have called this man stupid before, but at that point, it seemed like all reason returned to him, and he decided to do the only reasonable option that made sense to him ' run. Irena had told me once that when she fought in Russia, some opponents would try to run from her, but she always caught them. Before she headed off, she looked at me to ask if I wanted a piece of him, but I motioned to her that this was her prey. I trotted along to watch. When I arrived, she had him cornered against the wall of the UPS building and a nearby tree. The man was holding his wrist that Irena twisted, and looking for some way out, while Irena was slowly creeping up on him, saying in her "dumb Russian' accent, "Let's have fun, yes?" Our would-be-robber, not having much of a choice, decided to fight his way out. Poor guy, he's going to get slaughtered. He swung at Irena with his good hand, and that was it.

Watching Irena fight is a beauty to see. Her fighting style seems to be a mixture of gymnastics and wrestling (the real stuff, not that WWE junk you see on pay-per-view). With the exception of a knee to the chest, she used no blows to subdue him; she just threw him all over the lawn and bent his limbs in directions they weren't supposed to go. She's also much stronger than she looks. She ended up holding up his good hand between hers while she had her foot on the back of his head, driving his face into the ground, sniffing dirt.

She turned to me and asked, "How bad should I hurt him?"

I stood and thought for a moment. "Let's see, he's probably the one who robbed those other people at the parking lots, plus he tried to rob us, plus he had the nerve to hit on us. I would say hurt him enough to confess, but leave him in good enough shape for the police. I'm going to finish loading the Bowflex."

"I'll join you in a minute," Irena said. As I walked back to the pickup, I heard muffled screams, pleadings, and I think the confession of every wrong thing he's done since he was 12. Yes, Irena can be most efficient.

After we got back to my house, we called the police to pick up the rest of our would-be-robber, ate dinner, then like a child at Christmas time, put together the Bowflex machine, and gave it a trial workout. It worked great. Irena planned to order hers when she got home that evening.

"I hope someone tries to rob us again. I've been getting a little rusty with my fighting," she said.

That was on a Monday, the beginning of my action-packed week.

The next day, everything went smoothly. People brought their cars in to be fixed; Irena and I fixed them up to be sent out. Near the end of the workday, business usually slows down, barring a last minute customer, and people who want to socialize while we work or just plain socialize usually show up within the last 40 minutes. With about 30 minutes left in our workday, we were taking a little break when a car pulled up. Normally that was the time where my good friend, Susan Davidson shows up, but that wasn't her car, so of course, that wasn't Susan.

The customer was Barbie Kendoll, an old friend of mine from high school. We hung around with each other from time to time, participating in a few clubs and things. She made the honor roll four years in a row. We had our hopes and dreams. I have already attained my dream while hers was to be a TV news reporter. As image-driven as TV news can be, I figured she would have no problems fitting in. Barbie looked like her namesake, with long blonde hair, and a Barbie-like figure, 36-24-36 on a 5'6 frame. After high school, as it is with many people, we went our separate ways. I attended college, and I was a little surprised to see that Barbie wasn't there. I just figured she attended somewhere else. After I graduated, I was surprised the next time I ran into her; she was bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Since then, she started working as a secretary for a local trucking firm. One day while she bagged my groceries, I couldn't help but ask her what happened to her dream of being a TV reporter.

"Some dreams just aren't meant to be," she said, with a faraway look in her eyes.

From that day, even though my dreams were proceeding unhindered, I made an even special point to make sure I wouldn't crash and burn like Barbie did, who somehow got shot down before she even started. The look I saw in her eyes that day spooked me so much that I was convinced that was not a place I didn't want to go. Some people have said to me, so you own and run an auto garage, so what? I tell them you're missing the point, it's my garage, it's my business, and it's my vantage point where the sky is the limit. Ironically, people have said the same thing to my dad. After he had his fourth (or was it fifth) garage operated, those people don't say much anymore. As for me, after I fixed a problem in their cars that the other mechanics in town couldn't figure out, well, you can't say much when your car purrs like a kitten.

All these thoughts flew in my mind like quicksilver as I walked out to the car to greet her. As she stepped out of the car to greet me, I could see that her look hasn't changed too much over the years. She was a little skinnier, but that's all. That and the nice set of sunglasses she was wearing. I found that interesting, because the skies were overcast, almost too cloudy for sunglasses. Come to think of it, I don't remember her ever using that much makeup either.

"Oh, Betty, it's good to see you!" She said while giving me an embrace. That was fine, but she didn't give me the chance to warn her about how dirty my coveralls were. Somehow, I didn't think she cared.

"Hey girl, it's been a while," I said. While I always relish old and new friends visiting me, there was something about this that just struck me as odd. Why? Well, as I have said before, Barbie and I have hung around with each other some. "We're just a couple of BB's," she used to say on occasion, playing on the first letter in our names. But like some friends are, Barbie and I were as different as night and day. She always liked playing with well, Barbie dolls (with a name like that, how could you not?), while I was a bit of a tomboy, playing with cars. She liked dressing up in nice outfits and high heels, while I dressed casual with no heels, or no shoes, for that matter. The Barbie I remember would think twice before hugging me, not because she doesn't hug, but because I'm was wearing once again, oily, greasy, coveralls (hey, I'm a mechanic, my clothes are supposed to be dirty).

"I didn't come at a bad time, did I?" she said.

"No, as a matter of fact, it looks like we may be closing a little early today," I said. "Oh, where are my manners? Barbie, this is my assistant, Irena. Irena, this is Barbie, an old friend from high school."

"Pleased to meet you," Irena said.

"Same here. It's a nice place you have here," Barbie said, and then turned to me with a serious look. "Is there someplace we can talk if uh, you know, have the time?"

"Sure, no problem," I said. "Irena, could you go ahead and start putting things up? I'll be out in a bit to help you with the rest."

"No, take all the time you need, Betty. I'll go ahead and close up shop."

"You sure?"

"Yes I am. Go and reminisce with your friend."

Barbie and I went to my office. I noticed she was a little surprised by how clean it was. Because I have many people come in to discuss car repair, shoot the breeze, or issue challenges, I figured I would make it as much like an office in one of your local white-collar businesses. In other words, to make it so when you sat down, you didn't have to worry about getting something on your clothes that you couldn't get rid of later. I guided Barbie to one of the chairs and I got behind my desk.

"So what's up?" I ask. Again I noticed her over application of makeup, especially around the eyes, and she still was wearing her sunglasses. My office isn't that brightly lit.

"I understand that along with being an excellent mechanic, they say that you're the toughest woman in town," she said, looking down at her hands folded in her lap.

Oh, boy, I think I know what's coming. "That's what people say, but I didn't start it," I said.

"Really? Well maybe I made a mistake coming here," She actually sounded disappointed when I corrected her on that point.

"Wait a minute Barbie, what's going on?"

"Well I needed you to do me a favor."

"What favor was that?" I asked, inwardly cringing at the upcoming answer.

"I needed, I wanted someone to persuade a certain person to ah, behave himself and to not perform a particular behavior."

Okay, now this is getting strange. The Barbie I knew was very articulate and said what she meant, not this cryptic jazz. "What are you talking about Barbie? Who are we talking about, and what behavior is it that you want him to stop?"

"Rocco Petrocelli. Does the name sound familiar?"

"A little, I think. Isn't he some guy involved in construction or something?"

"Yes, he's the superintendent of Romans' Construction Company. They're building a new office building in town."

"Okay, I think I saw his name on the sign by the site. So what "behavior' is he doing that he needs persuasion to stop?"

For an answer, Barbie took off her sunglasses. Then it hit me, why was I so slow? I remember something Fred's mother said to me once, her son whom I beat to a pulp some time ago, "No matter how well you hide it, a bruise still stands out." I immediately remember the wisdom of her statement. Despite the nice makeup job she did, it was still hard to hide the fact that she had two black eyes. She was wearing a nice business pantsuit, with long sleeves and pant legs that hang loosely off her legs, but I at that time couldn't help wondering how much of her outfit was fashion, and how much was a cover-up for any possible bruises she may have gained. It also explained why she was skinnier. If you're getting beat up half the time, where do you have time to eat? Besides, if she gained a pound, she was probably beat down for that too. I remember reading once about the signs of an abused spouses' behavior, and Barbie displayed all the signs of that behavior. I remembered back in school how we laughed together and shared all the things that girls share; clothes, school, and boys (hey, I didn't talk about cars all the time). Now, she can't even look me straight in the eye when we talk.

I moved quickly from my desk to closely inspect her face. "Oh, Barbie, I'm sorry. Did, uh, did Rocco do this to you?"

"Yes he did, two nights ago. He came home from the bar after work, and told me he already ate, despite the dinner I cooked for him. He said he was ready to get it on, and started to pull me toward the bedroom. I told him I had a long day at work and I wasn't in the mood, maybe later tonight. He said maybe this will get you in the mood, and then he hit me. After he took me to the bedroom, he hit me again, telling me that I was lousy, and he could get better satisfaction from a slut on the street; and he wouldn't have to pay half as much as what he spent on me."

After you hear something like this, you expect the person to suddenly burst into tears, or at least that's what the TV movie of the week would lead you to believe. Instead, Barbie just told me the whole story matter-of-factly, as if she was discussing the latest prices of vegetables in a supermarket; no big deal, like it happened every day. That chilled me even more, because it probably did. It also chilled me when I realized what she wanted me to do.

"And you want me to beat him so he will never do it again?" I asked. I couldn't think of any nicer way to say it at the time.

"Yes, I heard of how you took on every tough guy in town, no matter how big they were, or how many of them they were, and you beat them all. I just thought maybe you could-"

Despite the fact that this man deserves to be shot, not beat, there are certain lines I definitely refuse to cross, the matrimonial line being one of them. I refuse to be pitted against someone's husband by his wife, no matter what the deal was.

"Barbie," I said, "I know this must be so awful, but despite all of what you heard, I'm not a "gun for hire' that you can just send after someone who mistreats you, especially between a married couple. There are dozens of counseling services out there that can take care-"

"We're not married."

"What?"

"We're not married, we're living together. Why are you looking at me like that? Everybody does it. We've been hooked up for about six months now."

Now I looked at Barbie with a mixture of astonishment and anger. One could perhaps accuse Barbie of a few things, but stupidity was not normally one of them. I remember at the dinner table back when I was in high school talking about different things when the subject of living together came up.

My mother, who is not a person to mince words, just simply said, "If a man says he loves you, he can give you a ring and a date, and after that date, then you can move in together."

I had nobody in mind regarding the subject, but I wanted to push things just a little bit, so I said, "But mom, if a man says he loves you, and wants to spend as much time as possible with you, wouldn't that be enough? Why would you need a piece of paper?"

"No," mom said. "A man can say he loves you, and I'm not singling them out, because women do this too, but that doesn't always mean anything. Your last boyfriend could have said he loves you, but is he with you now? No. And that "piece of paper' that seems so insignificant means a lot more than you think. A marriage is more than just saying to the other person "I love you,' it's a vow between you and your husband to be, your family, your friends and God that this is your mate who you will spend the rest of your life with. It's not a trial period to see "if things work out.' Your father knew that, and he knew what to do when he realized that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, and vice versa. All this "shacking up' stuff is to give a person access to something that doesn't belong to them in the first place."

I remembered the look she gave me after she said that. Her eyes were saying to me, "and don't even think of trying it." I remembered it was rather quiet around the dinner table after that. I couldn't argue any more after that, my brother suddenly piled a huge helping of mashed potatoes on his plate and started shoveling that into his mouth, and my father had a goofy grin on his face. He agreed with mom, but why beat a dead horse?

Finally he said, "This meat loaf is great, honey, how'd you make it?"

"I didn't," mom said, "you made it."

"Oh." My dad's attempt at changing the subject gave us all a good laugh.

The living together deal I'm not fine with, it's bad enough, but living together with someone who beats you? Someone will need to explain the logic of that to me.

"So let me get this straight," I said to Barbie, "you are living with someone who beats you on a regular basis for six months. Someone who probably hasn't mentioned the idea of marriage since you two moved in, and your only answer for these beatings is for you to come to me to beat him up for you?"

"Well I didn't want you to beat him too bad," she said.

"I'd like to pound him into butter. Why couldn't I do that?"

"Well, he's a good provider, he gives me flowers every once in awhile, he said he cares for me and he's real good in the sack, if you know what I mean." She grinned a little at the last statement.

I couldn't believe it; she's actually defending the guy. A few minutes ago, he was a drunken monster who uses her for a punching bag on a regular basis, and now she's describing him as a love machine. This lady is messed up real bad.

"Let me get this straight again. This is a guy who makes plenty of money to take care of you, gives you flowers every now and then, and is a sexual athlete; yet, he uses your head like a pi#ata every night or every other night? That's not love, that's not even "caring for you,' that's treating you like a pet. No, I take that back. Most pet owners I know would never dream of treating their cat, dog, or goldfish the way he treats you."

I think something in that rant got through to her, because that dreamy look she had on her face was being replaced with cold hard reality. Oh, Barbie, what happened to you?

"I don't know what to do," she said quietly.

The answer was right there in front of her, but she needed to be led to the door to find it. "Is it his place or yours?"

"Huh?"

"Is it his place or yours? Who pays the rent for the place?"

"He does."

"Well that makes it easy then."

"Easy to do what?" Barbie asked.

"Move."

"He won't let me do that."

"Then do it while he's at work. Take a day off, load all your stuff into whatever you can find, then get out of there."

"Where will I go?"

"You can go to a hotel, a friend's house, better yet, you can move back to your parent's house. I bet they'll be happy to see you."

"Rocco never liked the neighborhood my parents lives in. He said there are too many mongrels that live there."

"Mongrels?" I asked.

"Black people," Barbie said. Then she listed a few things that these "mongrels' supposedly do to neighborhoods, according to the gospel of Rocco that is.

"Barbie, I'm half black."

"Well, you're different."

"Different? What has this man done to your mind girl? I'm no mongrel, and you know my mom won't put up with that junk. You hung around a few "mongrels' at school, and they didn't pick your pocket or trash your neighborhood. Furthermore, no, everybody is not "doing it.' I can name a number of dating couples and those who are engaged right now, who are still living in their separate homes. Just because-"

I decided to stop, because it looked like her eyes were glazing over. I walked to my desk, grabbed one of my business cards, and wrote the number to my cell phone on it.

"Here," I said. "These are the numbers you can reach me at if you need a hand. I also know some people who can help you out with any concerns you might have afterwards."

"Thanks Betty," Barbie said. "You're a good friend." We embraced, and she made her way out.

I walked to the door, and I saw that Irena have closed up shop, put everything up, and went on home. I walked back to my desk, and leaned against it, feeling totally exhausted. I felt like I was in a bad dream.

Later on that evening, I was so keyed up, I worked out on my Bowflex machine for two hours before I went to bed that night.

That was on a Tuesday of my long week.

The next morning, after I worked out and showered, I saw the flashing of the message light on my answering machine as I stepped into my room. I don't normally receive any calls in the morning at home, so I pressed the play button to see who tried to contact me. It was Barbie, who told me she called in sick at her workplace that day, and then loaded all her worldly possessions in her car and her brother's truck. She then showed up on her parent's doorstep, who welcomed her warmly, with open arms. After she unloaded everything, she called Rocco, and proceeded to tell him what a jerk he was, and that he won't have little Barbie to knock around anymore. I personally would have thought it would have been a nice touch to have him be surprised when he came in and saw a half-empty apartment, but a phone call was a nice enough touch, I guess. She proceeded to thank me immensely for what I done, and promised me that we'll have lunch sometime.

I was happy. Normally I wake up in a good mood anyway, but when you hear good news like this, it puts an extra spring in your step. I practically floated down the stairs to the breakfast table with my mom and dad. I think they noticed I was a little more happy than usual. They probably thought I was in love. Irena noticed the great mood I was in too. I gave her the short version of what happened yesterday and the call this morning, and it brightened her up too. She said she would have taken great joy in breaking all his limbs, and then start giving him some serious damage. I was just thankful it didn't come to that. It would be nice to have a normal week without having to clean somebody's clock after business hours or over the weekend.

My father had the day off, and one of his mechanic friends, who worked at one of the competing garages in town, came over that afternoon. Dad stepped out to get something from the store, so his friend dropped by my place to see how I was doing as he waited for my dad to return. We went to my office, popped open a couple of cokes, and shot the breeze for a while.

Being friendly rivals, he ribbed me a little bit about when I was going to take over my father's "empire.' I told him I'm happy where I was at the moment, and if I wanted to expand the business, it would be in car restoration. He asked about the 1959 Cadillac convertible, the car I last restored. I told him I literally drove the car in the middle of town when suddenly I was pulled over by the local police. It turned out one of the leading businessmen and politicians in town saw the car, saw who was driving it, and arranged to have me detained till he caught up with me. The executive came over to where I was, made me an excellent offer, and I sold the car to him right on the street. After the sale, I asked the police officer for a ride home.

"So you didn't get a ticket for speeding through town?" My father's friend asked.

"Oh no," I replied. "I wasn't speeding. Besides, you don't speed through town in a car like that, you cruise." I held out the last word for dramatic effect.

While we sat there laughing, the office door suddenly burst open, and this large angry man walked into the middle of the room. He was tall, about 6'4, and had a muscular build. He was dressed in dark blue work trousers, a white short sleeve dress shirt, and a yellow hard hat.

I leaned over to my guest and said, "Yet me talk to you later, Bud, it looks like I have a "problem customer.'"

He left, giving the angry visitor a suspicious look.

Angry customers I don't get too many of, but I had a strange feeling about this guy, probably because I never saw him before in my life.

"May I help you?" I said politely.

"Are you Betty, the woman who runs this run-down place?" He said.

"Yes, I'm Betty, what may I help you with?" I asked, ignoring the insult.

"You can help by keeping your nose out of other people's business."

"Other people's business? What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"I'm Rocco Petrocelli, and I don't like people talking to my girl about things that they have no business pushing their nose into."

Oh, it makes sense now. Barbie, in her "infinite wisdom' must have dropped my name a couple of times when she was telling him off. So of course, the "Betty told me this," and "Betty told me that," was sure to tick him off. Worse, it put me into the middle of a situation that I wasn't really in. However, the first thing I need to do is to get this Neanderthal to put this matter on the back shelf until either business hours are over, or when we both have a break to discuss this in length.

"Look, Mr. Petrocelli, is it, I will be glad to talk this over with you, but we need to do this after business hours."

"No, you tell me right now, did you or did you not tell her to dump me?" He said.

"I will answer your questions after business hours. I have a business to run and-"

"This little two-bit piece of trash? This ain't nothing! Did you tell her to move out?"

"Mr. Petrocelli, we can talk after-"

"We'll talk now, you freakin' mongrel," he bellowed. "Nobody blows me off."

"Excuse me?"

"That's the problem with you mongrels. You folks think you're so stinkin' smart, when you really don't have the brains that God gave a monkey." Rocco walked to the front of my desk and put his finger on my chest. "Now tell me the truth girl, did you or did you not-"

"Yes I did," I shot back. "Happy? Now I need to go back to work and so do you. After we get off work, we can talk about this. Right now, you're disrupting my customers, so you need to leave the premises right now."

"You think you can make me?"

I'm sure I could, but not now. "I know the police can; and I will not hesitate to call them if you don't leave now."

"Maybe I'll stick around. Let's see you call the police, as if you use them." Rocco stood back and folded his arms with a superior smirk on his face.

"What?"

"You don't think I've heard about you? Some reputation you got for yourself there, "the toughest girl in town.' Don't make me laugh. All you've done was beat up other broads and sissy boys. Well, I'm not a broad, nor a sissy boy. I'm tough too."

"Yeah, a real tough guy. That shows from the way you use your girlfriend's face as a punching bag."

"Hey, didn't I say it's none of your business? I think somebody needs to teach you a little something about privacy and the facts of life."

"I didn't see Barbie, she saw me, and I know enough about the facts of life to not stand around and let a friend get beaten to-"

"I don't care what you know!" Rocco was now six inches from my face. I didn't move. "I'm not going to let some mongrel from a half-mongrel family tell me what to do with my-"

"Who are you calling a mongrel?" a third voice came from outside the office door. My father, his friend Bud, and Irena came in. Dad walked over to Rocco, standing about a foot away from him, staring him in the eye. He spoke to him very calmly.

"Now I don't know why you're here, and I don't care. You don't barge your way into my daughter's place of business, threaten her, and call her names. Her name is Betty, and she's not a "mongrel,' she's my daughter. My wife is named Savannah. When you set foot on this property, whether it's my daughter's garage or on my property, you treat us with respect. Now I'm going to say this once and only once; if you do not leave this garage, get your hind end in that truck, and drive away, you are going to wish the police were here. Do you understand me?"

Rocco looked at my dad and started to attempt to laugh in his face, but he saw my father's eyes burning a hole through his face. Without a word, he turned and left the office. When my brother and I were kids, we knew when he gave that stare, and he spoke to us in a calm voice, we knew we either were in trouble or were going to be. Though I know I can take care of myself (I wasn't given this reputation for nothing), I have to admit it was a real thrill to see my father in action against that joker. You go, dad!

"Honey, are you all right?" My father said as he came around the desk to embrace me.

"Yes, I'm fine," I said. "Irena, you don't mind running the garage for a little bit, do you?"

"No problem, boss, take as much time as you need," Irena said, then turned and got back to the car she was working on.

My dad, Bud, and I walked over to the house next door, and I explained what happened the day before and how it came to a head that day. We were sitting in the dining room drinking coffee (well they were drinking coffee, I was drinking lemon tea. Susan got me hooked). Dad reached over and grasped my hand.

"Honey, from what you did a couple of days ago, and from the way you stood up to that man today, I couldn't be more proud of you. Your mother and I taught you and your brother to do what's right, and to stand up for what's right. You did great."

Now he did it. My eyes were beginning to water. My dad always had a way of saying something so sweet, oh, why did you have to do that dad?

"I'm going back to the garage," I said, suddenly in a hurry. "Thanks dad."

"You're welcome honey. I love you."

"I love you too." I shot out of the house before they had to use a mop to clean up the floor. By the time I got back to the garage, I was back to normal. Thank God, nothing else eventful happened that day. Wednesdays like that I can do without.

During our last confrontation, it appeared either Rocco heard of my so-called reputation or he took some time to do a little research. Somehow, I can't imagine Rocco even spelling the word research, much less doing it, so I imagine it must be common bar conversation now. Great, that's just what I need, advertising. I did go ahead and do some research on him however. Doing research on possible opponents has gotten to be a regular habit of mine since my last run-in with thugs that Fred sent after me. The old adage, "Know your enemy' has gotten to be very helpful. Rocco's "file' seemed to be rather interesting. Besides being the superintendent of a construction company which he takes a lot of pride in, he's also known as quite a ladies man. In fact, he's been known to leave his favorite drinking establishment (which he could fund independently; he goes there every night), with a lady or two hanging on his arm. Upon finding that out, I made a mental note to tell Barbie to get herself tested. No telling what the man brought home with him.

The other interesting tidbit I found out about Mr. Rocco is he also prides himself on being a good street fighter. He also has a tendency to be in at least one fight at the bar he hangs around. As far as anyone knows, he's never been defeated in those barroom brawls. I guess we have a similar characteristic in that we both have reputations, but that's where the similarities end. He takes great pride in maintaining his, while I would love to get rid of mine.

Two days later, everything went without incident. I didn't hear from Barbie, but she needed to take some time to get adjusted to living back with mom and dad. In the meantime, I took the time to be out with friends that Friday evening. Irena didn't come, her Bowflex machine arrived earlier that afternoon, and she was like a kid at Christmastime, wanting to rush home and unwrap her new present. I didn't think she'll be disappointed, I wasn't with mine.

Apparently that Friday was a busy night for all my girlfriends that night except for three of them; Susan Davidson, a blond, 6'0" kickboxing machine. At that time, she was one of the main challengers for the Tri-State title in amateur kickboxing. The woman has power, just ask anyone who had his or her ribs caved in while fighting her. Over time, she has not just become a good friend, but also sometimes a moral anchor and compass. That's something that comes in handy when you seem to be whacking people across the head on a regular basis. Janelle Edwards, who had long black hair and 5'11", was a part-time physical therapist, but mainly, she's the main judo instructor at the new dojo in town, The Iron Foot. Janelle is already gaining a reputation of being one of the better instructors in town. She also has some of the biggest arms I've ever seen on a woman. I know that comes in handy when you're throwing people all over the place. Velvet Jones, close friends with both of them, was a black, 5'10 judoka as well, a black belt, and at that time considering whether to add jiu-jitsu to her repertoire. Well-muscled all over, Velvet has a "maid' at her apartment who comes by to keep the place clean. Of course, that's not unusual until you find out the "maid' was some guy she beat up who tried to mess with Susan. The deal was rather simple, come over to the apartment for an hour or two on weekdays, clean the place in exchange for not getting beat up again. I've been told he does a good job. It's even funnier because he's a rich guy. Maybe I should find me a "maid,' but somehow I don't think my parents would like the idea of having somebody over to clean my room and wash my clothes when I could do it myself. Still, it sounded like a nice idea.

Like me, all three of them are committed barefooters. Not to obsess on that point, but like anything else, it's great to find friends who have something in common. In this case, it's martial arts and a hatred of footwear. We shared other things like church stuff and movies and stuff, too, but it was a nice starting point.

One of the things that has started to become a regular occurrence when we got together was to hear about the "fight of the week,' a detailed account of who I whacked across the head and how I did it. Janelle told me that they wanted to know because they're concerned about my welfare. That, I believe was true, but I know that's not the only reason. They want to hear a good fight. Even my sensei, my teacher Kim, who taught me Tae Kwon Do in the first place, hangs around with us sometimes and asks me, "Betty, could you tell me again how you whacked those people across the head?" One of these days, I'm going to sell them tickets and give them a ringside seat to one of my fights.

Anyway, the four of us has just seen a movie, and we stopped at a nearby restaurant to eat and play catch-up with each other. I told them about Barbie and my encounter with Rocco. As you can imagine, the general feeling was what you would expect from three women who can cripple or kill a man with their bare hands. They were also happy that Barbie moved out, and hoped that she would be able to turn her life around from this point.

We were finished with the main course and about to eat our desert when my cell phone rang. Normally I turn it off when I'm out on the town with the girls, but at that time, it slipped my mind. I excused myself, walked over to the restaurant lobby, and answered the phone.

"Hello?" I said.

"Betty?" A weak voice answered on the other end of the line.

"Barbie? How are you? Is everything okay at your parent's house?"

"I'm not at my parent's house, I'm at the hospital."

"Oh no, what happened?" My heart started to thud in my chest.

"Rocco attacked me after I left work yesterday. He grabbed me before I got in my car and beat me. He kept going on about all the things he's done for me, I shouldn't have treated him this way. He said he's going to make it that no man will want me now. And he just kept hitting me." She started to break down. "When I woke up, I was here. I don't know how or when I was taken here. The doctor told me some guy passing by on his way home saw me and called the ambulance. Oh Betty, I hurt so bad."

"How bad is it?" I said, my teeth gritted.

"I had a concussion, some heavy bruises, a sprained arm, and more black eyes, but nothing real serious. They said I'll be out in a day or two, but I'll need to stay at home and rest."

"Have you pressed charges?"

"I tried, but from it being so dark, and not actually seeing Rocco's face, the police said that from the testimony it could have been anyone. It would just be my word against his."

"You couldn't see his face?"

"He wore a ski mask, but I knew it was Rocco." She started crying again. "He said something else. I think he's after you next."

"After me, huh?" I was gripping a doorframe throughout the conversation. My knuckles were beginning to turn white.

"He said after he was finished with me, that nosy mongrel is next."

"Okay Barbie, get some rest, and I'll visit you as soon as I can."

"Okay Betty, please be careful."

"Oh, I'll be fine. It's your ex who needs to be careful. Get yourself ready, you're going to have some company in the hospital with you. Bye-bye."

I shut off the phone, walked back to the table, and told the others what happened. The first order of business after they received the news was how to find the guy, and then what should be done with his carcass after they get a hold of him. I was about to tell them I wasn't sure where he was when a familiar large figure came through the door, and passed by our table with two women on his arms. It was Rocco. He glanced over at our table, saw me, and stopped to chat with us for a while.

"Well, if it isn't the half-breed mongrel and her friends," Rocco sneered. His two lady friends regarded us with the same type of contempt, like they had something we didn't have.

"I just heard from Barbie at the hospital," I said. "I hope you like the food there, because you're joining her."

Rocco was about to say something, but one of the bimbos, a platinum-haired, top-heavy woman about my size, dressed in clothes so tight, it would constrict the breathing of most people, spoke up. "Oh, a tough girl. She's going to beat my Rocco all up."

"Lady, the best thing for you to do is to shut up and move out of way, because this isn't going to be pretty." I was rising out of my seat when Janelle grabbed my arm.

"Betty, we can't do it here," she said. "This is not the place."

The other bimbo, dressed in clothes as tight as her partner, and hair dyed so red, she could pass for Ronald McDonald's sister, said, "You don't need to do anything Rocco, I'll take care of her." I saw Rocco give a lusty grin when she said that.

This time Velvet spoke up. "Tell you what, Betty, you can have Rocco, I'll take these two girls. I want to show them how this "mongrel' teaches manners."

Susan went for a different attack. "You ladies think you're out with a real stud, huh? Do you know what he did with his last lady friend?"

This time Rocco's two women stopped for a moment as Susan gave them a list of injuries that Rocco inflicted on Barbie. "Whatever you two ladies are going to be doing, you better do it right, that's what I have to say," she said.

While the two women started showing some sign of independent thought, Rocco said, "Barbie got what she deserved, just like any woman who would listen to a mongrel like you and your mongrel-loving friends."

For a moment, I thought Susan and Janelle were going to come to blows over who wanted to break Rocco first. The three of us were starting to leave our table to get him when Velvet shouted "Betty!"

I stopped in my tracks for a moment.

"Remember how you do this. Find a place, but not here," she said. As I seen the onlookers staring at us, I remembered a cooler head would do best here.

"Janelle, could you tell that nice waiter over there that we want our check? Rocco, what are you doing at midnight tonight?"

"What business is it of yours what I'm doing at midnight?" he said.

"My business will be breaking your face, that's what. You know where the new playground is, the one with the well lit baseball field?"

"Yeah, I know where it is, so what?"

"You and I will meet there tonight. You may want to conduct whatever business you have with your two girlfriends a little early tonight, because we have an appointment."

"Sure, I could waste an extra five or ten minutes."

"That waiter has been waiting for you. He has your seats ready. I'll see you tonight." I turned and walked back to the table before he had a chance to respond.

"Betty, we're coming with you," Susan said. "We want to see him suffer."

"The more the merrier," I said. "I just have to warn you though, if you ladies want a piece of him, there won't be much left."

It wouldn't be midnight for a few hours, but it might as well have been six hours, because time started creeping. At least it gave us time to cool down a little bit and get our heads back together. In not even the space of five minutes, that man comes into a restaurant, and the four of us wanted to rip his head off. And he's called a ladies man?

I also took the time to check my outfit. I wasn't wearing anything fancy, just a black t-shirt with olive khaki cargo pants. Not my initial preference for battle, but good and loose enough for strong punching and high kicking. Even though the other three wanted to kick his tail, they knew that I had first preference since Barbie was my friend and he threatened me first. In this case, I wasn't going to share Rocco with anybody; he was my prey to abuse.

Finally, midnight came . . . and went. When it was almost 1 a.m., we wished we knew Rocco's home address so we could come by and drag him and his two tramps out of bed. However, I knew standing out in a deserted baseball field all night wasn't going to help matters any. I thanked my friends for their support, and possibly try to arrange a "war conference' sometime later, like around 10 or 11 that morning at Velvet's apartment. We later changed that to 1 p.m. because of how late it was getting at the moment. Agreeing that was a good idea, we said our good-byes and went home.

Someone backing down from fighting me is not a big problem to me. It just tells me they have better things to do other than to chase some elusive, silly title. If someone claimed to be the toughest person in the neighborhood without fighting me, it's fine with me. However, this is a different matter. A big ape of an ex-boyfriend assaulted one of my oldest friends, and he was going to get away with it. That stuck in my craw something fierce.

I arrived home, but I couldn't sleep right away. I changed into my nightshirt, and worked on my Bowflex for about 20 minutes until something came to me. I remembered from what I gathered about Rocco's work schedule, they do some light construction at their work site until noontime, then everybody goes home and Rocco locks up. And I decided, that's when I'll be waiting.

On that note, I was able to sleep, thus putting an end to my Friday.

I slept in a little bit the next morning, but besides that, I woke up feeling refreshed. I don't have any set hours for the garage on Saturdays, it usually depends on the workload, and to be frank, whether I feel like it or not. That day, we had an alternator to install, and Irena can do that in her sleep. After I did my customary hour of weight training and showered, I went to my wardrobe and prepared for war. For this occasion, I chose a black muscle shirt, a pair of black shorts, actually, they are a cross between pants and shorts, the legs goes down to the knee with a broad white racing stripe going down each side. Since it was a little chilly that morning, I put on a wheat-colored pullover sweater that's similar to a rugby shirt. Needless to say, I didn't wear any shoes, but if I wore them on a regular basis, I still would take them off, because I wanted to feel my bare sole smash his face, my toes crack his ribs, and my heel against his jaw. Make no mistake; I planned to damage him enough to send him away on a stretcher, but lessening up enough to keep him out of the morgue.

I walked over to the garage, and told Irena what was going on. She said it was no problem, but before I go, she has a present for me. I told her that this may be an inappropriate time for giving gifts. She said not in this case and handed me a gift-wrapped small box. I shrugged and opened it. Inside were two pairs of leather fingerless gloves, the type of gloves they use in cage fights. One pair was blue, the other pair was black, which matched perfectly with the outfit I was wearing. Overjoyed, I thanked her and gave her a hug. I asked her what I could do to return the favor. She said to remember her when I gave out Christmas bonuses. She sent me off with an encouraging "Kick his head off for me!"

It was noon, and the construction crew has left for the day. Rocco performed his usual checking to make sure everything was done and in order. He walked into his trailer to finish some final paperwork and to check the progress of the building of the new office building against the projected goal. After all was finished, he stepped out of the trailer, locked it, and prepared to go home.

"I figured a ladies man like you should know better than to stand a woman up on a date," I said, "they're liable to get a little upset."

I startled him slightly. I pulled up to the site an hour and a half early, making sure to stay out of sight. After the last construction worker was leaving the worksite, I walked over to the trailer, staying out of sight, watching him go over his paperwork (from looking at him, he seemed to enjoy that part of the job as much as I do, which is not at all). When he was locking the door, that's when I decided to make my presence known.

"If you remember, I had a date, but I doubt you'd know anything about that," he said.

I wasn't sure if that was an implied hint of what he thought my sexual preference was, or he thought I had problems getting a date. He was wrong on both counts, but I didn't come here to discuss my love life, though after I got through with him, his would seriously hindered.

"You deserve to be beat half to death for what you've done to Barbie, and probably countless other women who displeased you," I said, walking closer to him, "But I'm going to offer you a choice. Under the eyes of the law, the beating you gave Barbie would be considered "assault.' If you went to the police willingly, I'm sure they'll be a little easy on you, and we would avoid needless bloodshed."

Rocco looked at me suspiciously. "What's the other choice?"

I unbuttoned my sweater and started to pull it off. "Me," I said.

Rocco did what I expected him to do, he laughed.

"A big man like me against a little thing like you?" He said. "I've fought in the roughest bars in town, and I haven't lost yet. I've fought men who were twice my size and beat them down. You don't even have a slight chance against me."

This must be a side effect of having testosterone. I've noticed when men fight, or rather before they do, they have to play a game of threat ' counter threat before they get to business. Never mind that the one with the biggest threat may lose the fight, he still sees it important to get that verbal jab in. Maybe it's a psychological thing, I don't know. I just know I want to get on with it, and show him several new shades of pain. As usual, I give the customary offer whenever I fight someone.

"You're welcome to use a weapon if you wish ' and on a construction site like this, you have plenty of things to choose from," I wave my hand towards the concrete blocks, and wooden beams lying around. "Or you can go without; it makes no difference to me."

I walk over to a nearby stack of bricks, and I fold my sweater and lay it on top of them. I put on the new gloves that Irena brought me. I started flexing my toes as I walked back over to Rocco, who's again looking at me strangely.

"Do you ever wear shoes?" He asked.

"Hardly. Don't like "em." I get into my fighting stance.

"You're a strange little mongrel," he said, taking off his hard hat and placing it on the doorknob of the trailer, then started flexing his arms and cracking his knuckles. So he turned my peaceful offer down ' good.

From what I know of bar fights and street fights, it's not necessarily a science. In fact, the only thing in my mind that separates it from a catfight is there's no scratching or a strange urge to tear the other persons' clothes off. In a bar fight, you basically stand there and swing punches at each other until the person who can't take it anymore quits, falls over, or grabs a beer bottle and breaks it. No, that's what they do in westerns. In any case, as we start circling each other, I realize he probably thinks we're going to stand here and trade punches, as if we're in a boxing ring. I have no doubt I can take his punches, but being punched is not on my list of priorities, so he'll have to deal with that. Thinking about it some more, I'm probably the first woman who challenged him to an actual fight. I know that has thrown him off some. I guess that means I won the psychological round of this fight.

Rocco approached me in a lumbering style, rather similar to how a grizzly bear approaches you in those wrestling exhibitions. He crouches down a little, while he has his fists in front of his face, making himself a smaller target. He probably relies more on power and stubbornness more than anything else. I've fought street fighters before, and ended up beating them ' bad. Still, if he's undefeated in all the bar fights he's been in, he has something going for him, so I need to be careful.

Finally, he throws a punch at my jaw, which I easily block. He countered with a left jab to my face, which I also block. He gets ready to try another combination when I suddenly snap a right side kick towards his face. The kick didn't make its mark, but then again, it wasn't supposed to. My foot stopped about six inches from his nose, and Rocco did the expected thing, he backpedaled away quickly. It's an intimidation technique I created. There's nothing like a dirty, calloused foot sole suddenly placed in front of your face to wake you up and communicate to you the seriousness of what's going on.

"Oh, we have a kicker," Rocco said, bearing a grin. "Yeah, I've fought you kickers before. I've fought your black belt karate guys and those judo black belts too. I beat them all. You're all legs, but you can't punch worth anything. All that fancy stuff is not going to help you."

All right, now I know this man does not know what he's talking about. No self-respecting black belt in karate, judo, or whatever participates in bar fights. Chances are Rocco never faced a black belt in anything until this moment, but some yo-yo who knew only enough karate to be dangerous to himself and others. I suppose after a couple of drinks, they probably boasted that they beat Bruce Lee. If he thinks that black belts aren't anything special, it's time to show him what I can do. Besides, this is taking too long.

A new friend of mine, Loretta, runs a training camp for those who want to participate in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu competition. One of the exercises she has her students do is a mental one ' playing chess. In chess, to keep from keeping slaughtered, one has to be able to see at least one or two moves ahead. Translating that into human competition, you have to anticipate what he or she is going to do next and act in kind. One move in chess that can be rather damaging is the sacrifice, giving up one piece, sometimes a valuable one in order to get the upper hand. It's time I try that.

Rocco has been throwing punches that I've blocked, and I've thrown a few punches and kicks that have been dodged or blocked. What I've decided to do is to leave myself open, not my head, but my chest. I supposed it's was a classic abuser's move anyway, so he should fall for the bait. I subtly leave my guard open, and Rocco delivers a right uppercut to my chest, which hits my abs. He's stunned for a moment because when he normally delivers that blow, the victim is probably either a man with a beer belly or a fragile female. He didn't count on somebody who has solid abs muscles. That's his loss. I stand and smile.

"My turn," I chirped, and fired a blow into his solar plexus. He suddenly bent over slightly. Oh, he felt that. The key to gut shots is you have to know where to hit. Now it's time to try something new.

My friend Janelle, ever the teacher, once gave me an interesting theory regarding one's fighting style and discipline. She said that as you progress along in your discipline, regardless of what it is, your fighting style won't just be the lessons you've learned in class, but it would also contain your experience from other sports or physical activities as well. The end result would be a fighter who's core discipline would be what he was taught (in my case, Tae Kwon Do), but it would be mixed with other things (with me, boxing plus other tricks my friends taught me).

To break this theory down to make it a little easier to explain using my own experience, when I was in high school, I participated in gymnastics for a while. It was a fun sport, and of course, you don't wear shoes. My specialty was the vault. You would run to the vault, land your hands on it, and perform your flip or whatever you have in mind. I planned to use the same principle on poor Rocco here.

When he bent down slightly, courtesy of my punch to his chest, I placed my left hand on his right shoulder, and jumped over him. While I was balanced briefly on his shoulder, I twisted my body so I was facing his back, and I landed my knees on both his kidneys. I guess from my momentum and speed, all my weight probably went into that blow.

How much do I weigh? I don't know, I stopped checking, besides I would be heavier than I look, because muscle is heavier than fat. However, whether you're a 200 pounder or a 90-pound weakling, one thing is for sure, those blows hurts!

I step back and watch Rocco, who was now acting like he had an itch that he couldn't scratch, reaching behind him trying to find some relief that can't be found right away. I'm sure no permanent damage was done; besides I'm not through with him yet.

After he's done his little dance, I appear in front of Rocco. As soon as he sees me, I fire a number of punches, piston-like, into his ribs. A new pain in front as well as back greeted him, as he takes one arm to wrap around the front of his ribs, which are either fractured or broken at this point.

"And that was with my fists," I said, remembering his "all kick, no punch' remark. Now I get to do the part I've been waiting for.

"And this is with my feet," I said delivering a roundhouse kick with my bare right heel hitting the left side of his face. He was still standing. That was good, because I still wasn't finished with him yet.

I followed up with a left side kick straight into his face. Still standing? Good. I then twirled around, slamming my right heel into the side of his right knee. As he came tumbling down, I realized I didn't break his knee, but he'll have problems using it for a while.

I didn't bother to tell you the biggest bulk of what Rocco has said to me during our fight, especially after I whacked his kidneys and cracked his ribs. The man has a mouth on him! It's amazing how one word can be used by some people to mean so many different things (and I thought it was just a cuss word for fornication). I consider myself a little too decent to quote you on what he's said, but I think you can imagine. Besides the swearing that comes with pain, he's told me to go have sex with myself several times, that he was going to kick the excrement out of me, and had took the lord's name in vain so many times, I don't think the Lord himself has been able to keep count. In other words, he's said nothing new, it's just he won't shut up. He's past the stage where he needs his mouth washed out with soap. I think industrial strength Drano would be more like it. The next person I fight who talks like that, I'll need to find a way to shut them up so I won't have to hear this garbage while I'm beating them up.

Rocco was lying on his stomach, struggling to get up, so I gave him a hand. More precisely, I grabbed his right wrist with my left hand, pulling him up until his head was about even with my knees. That would be enough to let him realize the reality of his situation. This fight was over. It was over when I smacked his kidneys and injured his ribs. To prolong this battle would be brutal, life threatening, and pointless. Barbie has been avenged, there was no need to go on. Now I just had to convince him of that fact.

"Rocco, the fight is over. You've been beaten, give up," I said, still holding him up by his right arm.

"No, I not gonna give up to you," he said, plus a few swear words.

I sighed. "Let me put this in words that you can understand. Your kidneys are bruised and your ribs are cracked. I'm not positive, but I'm sure I may have cracked a cheekbone. I can put my foot through the middle of your skull. With one punch, I can cave in your chest. I can break bones you didn't even know you had with a few punch and kick combinations. I'm not even talking about any fatal blows I can give you. Just give up, and when you're at the hospital, you can tell the authorities what you did. You can even tell them that a group of people, whatever, mugged you. You need to surrender."

I look down at his face and see that as a side affect of what I did to his ribs, he was bleeding a little from his mouth. I'm not sure what it is with me and blood, whenever I fight someone and I draw blood, it's like a green flag for me to draw more. When that happens, it's very hard to stop me. At that moment, it seemed to take all my willpower to keep from kicking him in the face to get more blood flowing freely.

He looks at me, and said, "I'm not going to surrender to you, you half-breed mongrel slut. That's why your dad married your mother, he couldn't get any from his own kind, so found a mongrel woman to take care of him. I bet you're a slut just like her."

"Shut up," I said, then I dropped him.

Even from that short a drop, his injuries would make that drop a painful one. So what? I straddle him, take one hand, and pull him up by his lapel, then I start slapping him painfully with the other.

"SHUT . . . YOUR . . . LYING . . . MOUTH!" I said in-between slaps. The blood from his mouth that just dripped before, was now being sent everywhere in a fine spray, splattering over everything, his white shirt, my left arm, the dusty ground, everywhere. I suddenly decided that it would be too easy to finish it right here. I let go of his shirt and stood up, as he was on the ground groaning. I start hearing ringing noises, like a phone. It didn't make any sense to me. He hasn't laid a hand on me and yet I'm the one hearing things? I blocked it out of my mind and got back to business.

"Get up. Get up and face me. Get up and find out what this "mongrel' is going to do to you. I love my family very much, and I'm not going to let you insult them. I'd break every bone in your body, kick your head off, and beat you to a bloody pulp before I let you do that again. I said get up."

Rocco gets up, a little wobbly, but he does it. Instead of facing me, he turned and stumbled away from me. I thought he was running until I realize that he's headed toward the supply shack where there's wooden beams leaning against it. He picked up one that was about three and a half feet long and about six inches wide and started swinging it like a baseball bat in my direction.

"Very good, Rocco, now we can have us a good time!" I said.

At this point, it was child's play to easily avoid Rocco's swings, and I gave him a kick to the forehead. Not a hard one, but a kick that will put the bare toes of my left foot against his forehead hard enough for a little push. He almost lost his balance and stumbled against the supply shack. He regained his balance and advanced toward me. I slam my right instep against his left side, which made him howl in pain; no cuss words either. He stood there, trying to regain his wits, trying to hold his side and his wooden beam at the same time, and failing to do either. Now it's time to end this. I give him a light side kick with my left foot, again not hard enough to cause any damage, but hard enough to push him against the side of the supply shack, his wooden weapon falling from his hands and bouncing away from him.

There were four of these wooden beams leaning against the shack, some thicker than others. Rocco was laying against the edge of the shack by the last beam. I figured it was time to have some practice before I deliver the final blow.

Rocco attempted to say something, but all he could manage was a cough that brought up more blood.

"What's that? You say something Rocco? No? Okay then, I'll go ahead and talk then, you rest a while." I walked over to the first wooden beam.

"You know, you may be a good street fighter."

I shot my left foot out and broke the first beam in two. I walked over to the second beam.

"And you may have taken on all kinds of people at your bar or on the street, and won convincingly."

This time I gave a side kick with my right foot and broke the second beam in two. I proceeded on to the third one.

"But me, I'm a living weapon. Every muscle in my body is solid, toned, and trimmed for maximum combat. I have power. You may have fought drunkards, brawlers, and defenseless young women, but I fought gangs, real martial artists, and other opponents that are just out of your league. I fought most of them by myself, and I beat all of them."

Using my left foot, I delivered a stomp that broke the third beam. I walked on to the fourth.

"When Barbie left you, you could've just moved on with your life, got another girl. You don't seem to have problems in that department; they don't seem to mind when you fool around on them either. Yes, I know about that. Anyway, you could've moved on, but no, you had to go and beat Barbie just one more time. Barbie, who's been my friend since we were freshmen in high school. Did you know that she wanted to be a television news reporter? If you didn't spend so much time beating and banging her, you've might have found out a little bit about her. She wanted to be a reporter ever since I knew her. Then one day, someone took her dream away. Was it you? Was it you who told her that she wouldn't amount to anything? Did you tell her all she was good for was to give you some pleasure in your bed and dinner on your table?"

The only response I got was Rocco coughing up more blood.

"I see. You know, this could've ended peacefully with you going to the authorities and turning yourself in for what you did, but no, you had to be a jerk to the last breath, didn't you?"

I walked to the fourth and last beam that was only a few inches from Rocco's head. I deliver a right roundhouse kick that shattered the beam a little harder than the rest, showering Rocco with a few splinters. I now step over and face him.

"About that part I said some time ago about being able to send my foot through the middle of your skull? I don't doubt I could do it, because it shouldn't be a problem. It's just that I never done it before. I'm just a little curious about what it would feel like. Let's find out, shall we?"

I raise my right foot so my bare sole would be about three feet away from his head. That's plenty of distance for me to deliver a blow of that much power, similar to how I broke the beams. I center my foot so the point of impact would first start with breaking Rocco's nose, and then continuing on its way forward until either my foot got stuck in the middle, or it hit the side of the shack. I receive my only response outside of coughing from Rocco as his eyes suddenly became wide when he realized what I was about to do.

Then I heard the ambulance. From the way the siren was sounding and getting louder, it must be coming in this direction. I bet Susan sent them. She's always looking out for me. She said once I'm like the little sister she never had, which is funny, because I'm a few years older than she is. I realized I still had my foot in striking position. Without a word, I put my foot down, then turn and walk over to where I placed my sweater and pull it on. I went to my car, got in, and drove off, roughly five seconds before the ambulance arrived.

While I was driving, I dug around in the pockets of my sweater for my cell phone, so I could see what the time was. I normally wear a watch, except when I fight. Since the fight is over, I had no sense of time. It could've lasted five minutes, it could've lasted 50 minutes, you don't keep time when you're kicking butt, at least I don't. As I looked on the small display, I had a message telling me that I received a call not too long ago. So that explained that ringing noise, I thought. I was starting to wonder if I was losing it there. According to the phone number, the call came from Velvet's place. That's right, there was supposed to be a "war conference' over there. Well, I started to drive over to her place; I could at least tell them that the "war' is over.

I don't remember knocking when I arrived at Velvet's apartment. No, actually, I know I didn't, because the first thing I saw when I opened the door was Velvet, Janelle, and Susan sitting at the dining room table. Ignoring my breach of proper manners, all three of them rushed over to see if I was all right.

"How are you feeling?" Janelle asked.

"Tight," was the only thing I could think of saying. It did describe how I felt though, like I was a carburetor that wasn't adjusted quite right.

"I think I have just the thing," Velvet said. "Susan, come with me for a minute, Janelle, see if Betty wants anything, like a soft drink or something. We won't be long." Then Susan and her went to the back of the apartment. I thought I heard a door close.

"I need to thank Susan for calling the ambulance when she gets finished," I said.

"Susan didn't call the ambulance, sweetie, I did," Janelle said. "We had a tricky time finding you. When you didn't show up here, I tried your cell phone."

"I remember hearing a ring from someplace, but at the time, I was uh, occupied," I said.

"That's what we figured. I then called over at your garage and talked with Irena for a little bit. She sounds like a delightful girl; I'd like to meet her one of these days. She told me what you were doing, so I thought the best thing to do would be to call an ambulance over to the construction site."

"I appreciate your concern, but I guess the ambulance wasn't for me this time," I said, smiling.

"Oh, I didn't call them for you," Janelle said. "I called them for him. I told them that there was a man seriously injured at the new construction site that needed their assistance. I knew you'd be in good shape, we'd just hoped you didn't kill him."

"No, not quite, but he'll be out of action for awhile."

Velvet and Susan came back to join us.

"We're all set. Betty, come with me please," Velvet said, taking me by the hand.

She led me to the back door of her apartment. As we went outside, there were old discarded pallets stacked up in piles and lined up against the brick wall of the apartment building and the dumpsters. I didn't count how many were there, but I know there was quite a few of them.

"Okay honey, you know what to do, so we'll let you go ahead and do it," Velvet said.

I pulled off my sweater and handed it to Susan, walked out into the apartment alleyway, and got to work. For the next ten or fifteen minutes, there was no sounds except for the breaking of boards, an occasional yell from me, and some heavy breathing. The trio silently watched me as I shattered the pallets using my hands, feet, knees, elbows, and almost any body part that was handy. When I finally finished, I was sweaty and exhausted. I walked back into the apartment and reached out to take my sweater.

"Oh no you don't," Susan said pulling my sweater away from me.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Look at you," she said, and turned me to face a nearby mirror.

She was right, I was a sight; my hair was almost another color with all the dust in it. My black outfit was caked with dust and dirt and. . .blood. As far as my face, arms, and feet were concerned, they didn't look that great either. It reminded me of that one character from the Peanuts comic strip, "Pigpen.' I could have passed for his cousin at that moment.

"You're not leaving this apartment looking like that. Go to the bathroom," Susan said.

"Yes mom," I said, staggering to the bathroom.

Inside, there were a couple of fresh towels, and clean sweatpants, bra, panties, and a T-shirt (my guess was they were Velvet's, since she's the closest one of the three to my size). Without hesitation, I undressed, stepped in the shower, and washed all the reminders of the day's battle away. After I finished showering and changing, I joined the three women in the living room. I sat on the sofa and propped my feet up on the coffee table. Velvet doesn't mind.

"Now how do you feel?" Janelle asked me.

I leaned my head back. "Like a million bucks." That was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke up, the three were watching something on TV. It looked like the local news.

"How long was I out?" I said, yawning.

"A few hours," Velvet said. "There was a news report about Rocco a minute ago. Boy, you messed him up bad."

"They said a gang did it," Susan said. She noticed my reaction to one of my victims being on TV. "Don't worry, it gets a little old after awhile."

She would know. Some time ago, Susan was hiking when she ran into three men who wanted to mess with her, so she gave them the beating of their lives. To avoid embarrassment, the guys said a gang did it. Turned out that was part of that rich guy's scheme that I mentioned earlier, the guy who's Velvet's maid now. Huh, small world.

It must be sweeps week on the news, because they jumped from Rocco's beating to an expose on if there are gangs in our town. The reporters interviewed everybody it looked like, from the chief of police to some elderly gentlemen who claimed he saw a group of teenagers up to no good. They even offered some advice about if a gang confronts you.

We couldn't help but laugh aloud seeing all this. If it wasn't for what Susan and I did, I guess they wouldn't have anything to talk about.

"By the way, did they say something about the parking lot thief being apprehended a few days ago?" I asked.

"As a matter of fact, they did," Janelle said. "They said he received lots of sprains and bruises, including a broken wrist."

"Oh wow, I got to tell Irena about that one. One of her victims made it on the news!"

"She did that? Now I know I got to meet this woman," Janelle said. "So Betty, are you up to visiting the hospital today?"

"Yes I am. I need to tell her that Rocco is a distant memory."

"That's good. We also want to see about working out a deal with her."

"Working out a deal? What do you mean? Why would you want to do that? You don't even know her."

"Basically Susan, Velvet, and I want to help her so she can get back on her feet, and so you won't have to do this again."

Susan saw my confused look and told me, "Betty you took care of Rocco; he won't be in her life again, but what's going to stop her from seeing the next "Rocco?' What's going to stop her from repeating this process all over again?"

"You can't fight all the "Roccos' of the world, Betty," Janelle said, "it would get rather exhausting. Eventually, she'll have to learn to think for herself and to find a man who doesn't think with his fists or his ' you get the idea."

"What are you going to do, admit her into a program?" I asked.

"An abbreviated one," Janelle said. "You don't know how many people have come into my dojo wanting to learn judo in five easy lessons so they could fend off their boyfriend or fight their husband when he's had a drink or two. When I tell some of them it's not quite that simple, they go away and I always wonder what happened to them. The ones that do stay however, realize that their work had to start on the inside first, not just how to move, but how to think."

"You think Barbie might start dating another loser who'll beat her?" I said. "I can't believe that, not after what she just went through. This guy I beat up just sent her to the hospital!"

"I hate to quote statistics to you," Velvet said, "But a good number of people who have been involved in an abusive relationship are likely to repeat the same situation all over again. It doesn't make sense, I know, but it happens more than you realize. There maybe a strong possibility that Rocco was not the first abusive relationship she had been in."

I stand there in shock, shaking my head. "I couldn't live with anything like that."

"That's because if they tried something with you, you would, what's your phrase? "Whack them across the head.' You had an early awareness of your talents and abilities, and you had confidence in them and yourself. You also had parents who encouraged you every step of the way, and taught you not to take any stuff from anybody. Not everyone had that blessing. What we want to do, Betty is to get Barbie to devote a couple of days a week for either six months or a year, whichever we can get. After we're finished, she can go on her way or start a regular program," Janelle said.

"What does this program consist of?"

"I will teach her judo, Velvet will teach her weight training, while Susan will work with her on the psychological and spiritual aspects of her training. She's getting this free too. She'll save a fortune in counseling fees."

"Can I help?"

"You already have. If she didn't come to you in the first place, she'd still be stuck with him. Besides, you don't have time. Don't you have a garage to run?" Susan said.

"Oh yeah, that's right. Well, I guess the next move is up to her."

"We'll need you to convince her about our deal too," Velvet said. "She doesn't know or trust us, but she knows and trusts you."

"Okay, I'll do it. I don't want to beat up another "Rocco' so soon, anyway."

We arrived at the hospital, and found that Barbie was making excellent progress, and had planned to be out in a day or so. Thanks to me pleading their case, I also enlisted her in the trio's "program' for the next year. The results from that should be interesting. She thanked us for coming; she said it brightened her day.

"I'm curious," Barbie said from her bed, "how did you girls do it?"

"Well, these things aren't hard when you have good solid friendships," Janelle said with a smile.

"No, not that, how did you get this far in the hospital without wearing shoes?"

"Oh, well Susan had some sandals to slip on so she wouldn't be suspected, the wimp."

"Hey!" Susan said.

"Velvet and I wore these," Janelle and Velvet propped their feet on the bed. "Barefoot sandals, makes it almost look like you're wearing shoes. Fools them every time."

"Betty, you're not wearing those, whatever you call them, how did you make it in here?" Barbie asked.

"I just walked in here like I was real important, and nobody dared to ask me anything," I said.

"So what really happened?"

"I walked real fast and hid behind these three whenever a staff person was around."

After we had a good laugh, Barbie thanked us again for coming. We talked a little more, then it was about time for us to go. Susan and Janelle respectively had plans with their fianc#es, Velvet had some grocery shopping to do, along with calling her parents, and me, I was going to go home, relax, give Irena a quick call, and read the latest subscription of Car and Driver that arrived in the mail Friday.

"Before you go, I'd like to speak with Betty in private, please," Barbie said.

"Not a problem. We'll wait outside the door so we can be your "cover' on the way back," Janelle said. "Or maybe we'll just give you Susan's shoes."

"Hey!" Susan said.

Once we were alone, Barbie said, "I've thanked you so many times already for all you've done, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What's going on?" I asked.

"I heard on the news about Rocco. Well, not only the news, but also the gossip from hospital staff outside my door."

"I thought they're supposed to be confidential about these things."

"I guess they are with normal cases, but Betty, he was almost in critical condition. You almost killed him."

I tried to explain to her how things got out of hand. It didn't go over so well.

"I wanted Rocco out of my life, but I never wanted him dead."

"But he's not dead."

"No, but he could've been. Shattered ribs, internal bleeding, a cracked cheekbone, I think he received a concussion too."

I stood there looking at the wall.

"I'm not talking about me now, Betty, I'm talking about you. Believe it or not, I kept up with what was going on with you, even though we didn't or in my case, couldn't talk in a long while. I rejoiced with you when you started your garage. I even was happy when you got an assistant, because I knew as good as you were, you would be swamped with work. What I'm trying to say, Betty, is, you're my hero."

I was stunned. "Th-Thank you."

"It's because you're my hero, and my friend, that I must tell you this. All over town I hear about your other reputation too."

"I told you, I never wanted-"

"I know, you told me," Barbie said. "But I just felt I need to warn you before it's too late."

"Before somebody comes and beats me up?"

"No, before something happens that will make you cross that line. That line between defending yourself and becoming who you're defending yourself from. I know I'm not an expert in these things, I mean, look at me! But, I, I, don't know how to put it, I'm just scared for you, that's all. I'll talk to you later."

I didn't have anything to say either, so I said goodbye and left.

After we returned to Velvet's place, and we went our separate ways, I couldn't help but think on what Barbie had said while I was driving home. To make things even more haunting, one of my own quotes to Rocco came back to me, "I'm a living weapon."

Was that true? Am I becoming like the thugs I fight on a regular basis? I didn't think I was. The big thing that scared me the most is I don't know what to do if I did.

Any suggestions or comments, contact me atshrewsberry@juno.com.

[Author's Note: If this advice doesn't apply to you, that's fine; I hope you enjoyed the story. If the matter of abuse in relationships is a problem for either you or your loved ones, read further.

Although the story is fictional, unfortunately the problem of abusive relationships and spouse abuse isn't. As much as I would like to send Betty to your house to take care of this problem (Boy, wouldn't that be great!), unfortunately, I'm not able to do that. If you surf the web (and I'm sure you do, otherwise you wouldn't have discovered this site and this story), you can use your search engines to find many sites that will link you to places that deal with this issue; some of them are probably near you.

Another thing, to take a quote from Betty, if you are in a relationship where abuse is involved, get out. If you are not committed (i.e., married), then there's no reason for you to stay and take that abuse or for you to allow that person to stay in your place or your life for that matter. As far as love goes, the last time I looked it up, it didn't mean being a punching bag for your abusive partner. Love is many things, but beating the ones you love isn't one of them. Love is gentle and kind, not abusive and mean.

For the married couples who are suffering, like I said, there are agencies and groups that can help you handle this problem. My advice is similar, however, take a stand, draw a line in the sand, and tell your spouse if they love you, then they should stop. If they don't stop, then either you or the other spouse should leave, at least for a while until things are worked out. We may make light of spousal abuse, but in reality, it's not a light matter.

Does it sound like I'm making the issue a little simplistic? Perhaps so. Does it sound like I'm ranting? Probably so, but I couldn't let this issue go by with just a story.]