“I see the way you look at me too,” the woman had purred into his ear. Red hair, curvy hips and big green eyes; a lot of competition for someone like Bronwen, who didn’t bring any overt sexuality and slut-tastic whiles to the table. She’d been sleeping, but not heavy enough that she wasn’t able to perceive what was going on that day on the plane, watching them through slitted eyelids. Every ounce of her wanted to jump up from the chair and rip the dumb bitch’s arms out of their sockets, from where they rested on his shoulders.

But that wasn’t right. If he wanted her, and not Bronwen, there was nothing she could really do about that. He always did deserve to be happy, and she’d obviously never provided him that. Maybe this new handler of his could make give him what Bronwen had always been too inept to deliver.

The sun starts insistently invading her sleep, and Bronwen yawns and sits up slowly on the bench. Stretches. Pulls the black tee-shirt away from her chest and airs it out. Pulls out the long black braid, and combs her hair with her fingers before sweeping it back into a loose ponytail, loose tendrils sneaking out behind her ears.

She leaned back on the bench and stretched out her legs, wiggling  her toes in her cons in the morning sunrise.

“Last night….last night I….” she murmurs. Bronwen remembers, and pulls her wadded up hoody towards her from the end of the bench, pulling out a long barreled Colt .45 from beneath the folds. She grins wickedly at the memory of fleeing the basement of the perv with Shane. It’d been a long time since she’d held a gun, and she cradled the Colt fondly in her lap.

A clanging and general racket of a scuffle brought her out of her chrome inspired reverie. Across the street, a homeless person was fishing through dumpsters looking for bottles. He had long raggedy white dreadlocks, and a green fisherman’s cap pulled low over his eyes. His dreads covered his shirt like a sweater vest, and his jeans were black and greasy.

Watching him for a moment, she grinned and pulled the gun up and steadied it in her grip. She watched as the small notch at the end of the barrel danced all over the homeless guy’s body. Tightened her grip a little and steadied her arms. Took closer aim. Just a little nick, that’s all …

A hand landed heavily on her shoulders and jarred her attention away from the bum.

“Please do not shoot vagrants in front of the F1X Headquarters, Miss O’Connor. It is strictly prohibited to have loaded firearms in the vicinity.”

A harsh matronly expression on her face, Annika Reizeiger frowns down at her, having stepped out for a break from her busy morning of tending to some administrative tasks. Bronwen turns the gun on her and scowls.

“Stupid bitch.  Now I’mma have to waste you instead.”

The coffee that Annika was holding drops to the ground with a splat, foam splashing up and sticking to her hosery. Bronwen takes aim and melodramatically winks at Annika, squeezing the trigger.

*Click*

“Oooh….today is your lucky day Ms. Reizeiger! Say, shall we have a wee chat about my contract? Tha’ ‘tis the reason I---“

“Are you fucking insane?” Annika bawls, reaching out to grab Bronwen and missing. Bronwen jumps to her feet and stands on the bench, arms crossed, staring down at Annika. As Annika tries reaching again and again, Bronwen reaches over the back of the bench with her foot and kicks her hand away.

“Stop it!” Annika fumes, stopping to straighten her skirt and hair. “I will not tolerate this kind of disrespect.”

“What  kind of disrespect would ye rather?” Bronwen winks, conspiratorially.

“Shut up. Come in and sign your contract. I’ve had it ready since we met. Please stop talking so much, you annoy me, immensely.”

“Wait a sec,” Bronwen leaps over the back of the bench and follows behind Annika. “You’ve had my contract prepped for two weeks? Why the fuck didn’t ye tell me?”

“Other than you’re unexpected departure from American soil, you’ve been losing. I was waiting to see if you’re able to commit, I don’t want you wasting anyone’s time, especially not mine.”

Wasting time… kind of like me being in this match with you, Fierce. I haven’t seen you fight. By default, this means I haven’t seen you win either, and I’m not about to, if I have my way and you’re spitting out teeth, blood and phlegm by the end of the match.

You’re extra special, you know that? I’ve been raging out for a little while now, itching for a good fight to come my way. I’ve been thinking about a lot of shit, and been through the wringer it seems, even while keeping my head down and my mouth shut. I’ve had enough of it though. Lucky you being around on day that I no longer have to do so, on the day that I get to be as angry, hateful and evil as I want, when I want, and how I want.

I suppose you’re still wondering why you’re special, right? I’ll simplify it for you.  I got a whole lot of hate burning up in my heart right now, especially for men. You have a dick I assume, small, shriveled, performs it’s perfunctory tasks when required in an mediocre to average way, like most American white men?

I’ll chop it off and feed it to the homeless, I’m that damn incensed by the Y chromosome right now. You irritate me. Misogyny irritates me. A one way street in impotent Emo white boy town. A man hates women and he’s either misogynistic or a homosexual. Hm. Interesting. A woman hates men, and she’s a feminist or a lesbian, both carrying essentially equal weight, ironically.

 I personally prefer the calling of a spade, a spade.  I’ll be the misandry to your misogyny baby, all over that damn ring. Bring your pitifully battle erect dick, and I’ll bring my boots, and stomp that shit flaccid, I promise. Don’t think for one moment that you’re getting involved with some pisser and moaner typical wrestling slut here. Not a prima donna like Annika. Not a transvestite like Pettis. Not a stupid bimbo like Nigella,  not an attention whore like Allisa. Not, essentially, like any “girl” you’ve ever fucked with before. I have no motive other than the fresh smell of blood and brutality, the satisfaction of bringing and enjoying the beautiful violence of a good fight.

 Lucky for you, special Johnny, you get the full explosive potential of that wrath this round. You’ll be so fucked up by the end of this, you’ll need a special bus to get your extra special man stereotype home.

Conversely, I can see it now how you’ll reply to this. Like most men, you’ll go for the “ultimate evisceration.”  “Ooh, look how she’s so angry at men! [insert trite insult about lesbianism, Amazonian impulses and mutilated breasts, and/or PMS, or other stupid clichés about women that you have been ineptly socialized and informed by]. Well, that’s flattering, but I doubt you would have got that Amazon reference in there.

You know dude, bring whatever you want. I’m pretty much indifferent to what you have to say to me, or about me. Slander away, take all the typical pot shots you do, be as “personal” as you want. I don’t fucking care, I never listen to this shit anyways, or certainly, I’ve never listened to yours anyways.  I’ll blow you away regardless. Until then, eat a dick, fag (misogynist?).

A shot rings out, and there is the sound of glass shattering. Annika levelly turns to Bronwen after inspecting the damage of the window. In the blurred distance, a homeless man is slumped over a rusty red Walmart cart.