Bronwen
O'Connor
Mistaken Label
She can still see it
even in her sleep, and she turns over restlessly.
“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.
“Come on…it’s just a homeless guy….you know
THAT was bad for business, right?” Bronwen sneers.
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