"Welcome to McFarlane's fitness. How may I help you?"
A perfectly ordinary sentence. One to which, you'd think, a reply would not be difficult to find. I, however, wasn't quite ready to answer. I was too busy trying to find out whether the person talking to me was a woman, or a guy with really, really, really long hair.
Judging from the amount of muscle distributed all over his/her/its body, it could be either. But it was wearing a top in the middle of a gym where all men seemed to be topless, so that might be a hint in the female direction.
"Yes, um... Miss?" She didn't contradict me, so I soldiered on. "I'm registered for the self-defense class. With Mr. Benson?"
"Oh, Chuck! Sure." She smiled at me, and now there was definitely something feminine about her face, though the bulging muscles on her arms still made me rather nervous. "That's one level below. Through that door on the left, down one floor, and then the second door on the right. Do you want me to show you the way?"
"No, thanks. I think I'll find it."
The moment I was downstairs, I knew that I didn't even need the muscle lady's directions: I could clearly hear Chuck's voice from down the corridor. Following it, I finally came to a long, low-ceilinged room with mats covering most of the floor. On the mats, a group of people stood gathered around a mountain of muscle I well remembered.
I smiled.
"Are we all here?" he called. Then he scratched his head. "Well, I don't really know what kind of answer I expected to that question. I mean, it's not very likely someone who isn't here will shout 'no', now, is it? I tell you what: We'll start, and if there are any stragglers, we'll just have to do our best to fit them in, okay?"
There was a chorus of assent from all around.
"Awesome. Let's start, then. My name," he thumped his massive chest in a Tarzan-imitation, "is Chuck Benson. Welcome to my self-defense class, 'How to chuck Chuck.'"
The people all gave a few forced chuckles, and a pained expression crossed Chuck's face. I couldn't keep my lips from twitching.
"That name, I'd just like to mention, wasn't my idea," he declared. "The gym's PR guy came up with it. Ever since, I've been hoping he might attend one of my courses so I can show him my appreciation." Smiling again, he cracked his knuckles. "So far, he hasn't shown up."
This time, there was real laughter from all around.
"All right, people. Form two lines, please, facing each other. You'll be pairing off, and I'll be walking around, showing you what to do."
We took up our positions. So far, Chuck hadn't noticed me. Or, he simply had a tendency to forget crazy girls who ran him over with their Toyotas, who knows?
"Now, the first attack you'll have to learn to defend yourself from is the frontal attack," Chuck explained. "If someone attacks you, especially if it's a man attacking a woman, the assailant will often go for the throat and grab you with both hands. That means he's pressing down on both the carotid arteries and the windpipe, thus cutting off air and blood supply. If you don't do anything, that will incapacitate you very quickly. You there! Want to help me to demonstrate?"
He beckoned to one of the course members—a scrawny guy in his mid-forties, who looked less than thrilled about the idea of having Chuck demonstrate how to strangle someone, using his throat as an example. Slowly and cautiously, he stepped forward, keeping a wary eye on Chuck's powerful hands.
Chuck smiled, which caused the guy to take a step backwards. "What's your name?"
"Marty."
"Nice to meet you, Marty. Don't worry. I won't break your neck or anything."
Seeming only marginally reassured by this, Marty remained where he was.
"Okay. So, an attacker will probably come at you like this," Chuck said, raising his hands. Then he lowered them again. "Come on, Marty, you play the attacker. I want to show the others how to incapacitate an assailant."
"Um... I'm not sure I..."
"Come on, big guy! Attack me! Do your worst! Try to strangle me!"
Looking terrified, Marty stepped towards Chuck and raised his hands tentatively. We all watched, fascinated, wondering how long it would take for Marty to end up as a bloody stain on the wall.
"If you manage to react before he gets his hands around your neck—great!" Chuck said, pointing to Marty. "Bring up your hand and slap him from the side, as hard as you can, on the neck, where the carotid artery is."
He began the motion, and Marty flinched back—but before he could retreat, Chuck had taken two steps forward and brought his hand to the pitiable little attacker's neck. He didn't hit, just touched the skin there, and let his hand drop again.
"If you can't manage to escape him, though, and he goes on to strangle the life out of you—come on Marty! Strangle me!"
"D-do I h-have to?"
"Yes! You're the attacker, remember? You want to kill me and steal my wallet. Or who knows, maybe you're a mafia assassin sent to kill me."
"R-really?"
"Yes, really. Now get on with it and strangle me, will you?"
"Y-yes. Of course."
"So, if he manages to get his hands around your neck—squeeze a little stronger, Marty, will you? You're trying to strangle me, not carry a priceless porcelain bowl!—and starts to squeeze, you can't get to his neck as easily. His shoulders and arms might be in the way. But what you can do is push between his arms, like that—don't be afraid, Marty, I'm not going to hurt you—and punch him in the face, or slap him. The face is very vulnerable, particularly if you go for the eyes, and your blow should cause enough pain to make him let you go. All right, Marty, you can stop strangling me now."
With a breath of relief, Marty scurried back in line. Chuck meanwhile repeated the movements he had shown us in the air.
"I want you to face your partner now and slowly mime those motions. Don't try to really hit them yet. Just practice the move to the carotid artery and the face while your partner goes for your throat in a gentle, hopefully non-lethal way. Alternately play the attacker and the victim, all right?"
We started moving. I had an old lady as my partner, who went for my throat with a broad grin. It didn't take us long to memorize the movement, and soon we could do it fluidly.
"Very well! That's the general movement. Now for the real thing." He held up something that looked like a thickly padded, giant dog collar. "There are a few dozen of these in the storage cabinet over there in the corner. Please, everyone get one and put it on. Since you're new to this and might miss the intended target, also get a helmet from the cabinet."
Soon, everyone was fitted out in leather—and not the sexy black kind. Most of the people looked rather dorky in their safety outfits. Except for the grandma I had been training with. She looked just mean. I wouldn't have liked to meet her in a dark alley.
"Okay. Start the moves I showed you. Don't be afraid to hit hard—you're protected now. I'll be taking the place of one of you after the other, to show you how it's done."
He marched over to Marty. "You were nice enough to help me before, Marty, so you're first."
"Oh," Marty groaned, "thank you so much."
"Won't you put on a collar or helmet, Chuck?" someone from the end of the line called.
"Me?" Chuck laughed. "Thanks for your concern, but I've done this ever since I was fifteen. I'm a pro, and can catch any of your blows before they hit home . So, let's start, shall we?"
The words were hardly out of his mouth before the old lady sprang forward and made a grab for my throat. I barely managed to evade her hands, and stumbled back, waving my arms wildly. Shit! I'd be damned if I let myself be beaten by a grandma, no matter how cool she looked in a leather helmet and collar!
We battled fiercely for a while, not noticing anything of what the others were doing. Our focus was so intense that I didn't even notice how Chuck was advancing down the line, taking one student's place after the other. I only realized it was my turn when he tapped the old lady on the shoulder.
"Excuse me? I'd like to show your friend here how it's done. Why don't you rest a bit, and then I'll show you, all right?"
Looking severely disappointed at having to put off her attempts at strangling me, the old lady nodded and slouched over to a bench, where she sat and fixed her beady eyes on me.
I looked at Chuck. He had taken up the attack position, prompting me to take up the defensive stance. From the bland smile on his face, it was quite obvious that he hadn't recognized me—but then, the leather helmet I was wearing covered my nose, forehead and chin, so maybe that wasn't very surprising.
"Shall we start?" he asked, starting to move towards me.
I nodded. "Sure. You were right, by the way, Chuck. This course is totally worth coming to."
He blinked, and his hands froze in mid-air.
"Cassy?"
My hand hit the side of his neck with all the force I could muster. Okay, so, in retrospect, maybe that was a bit unsporting of me, but he had suggested we start, hadn't he? Besides, when faced by a six foot three fighting machine, a girl has to use all the advantage she can grab hold of.
Chuck stumbled back and crashed into the storage cabinet.
The room went deadly silent, some hands freezing in mid-air, others in mid-choke. People stopped hammering at each other's necks and instead just stared at Chuck, swaying, slowly righting himself again.
"Um... hello," I said. "Nice seeing you again."
"N-nice to see you again, too, Cassy," he croaked. "Do you always greet your friends like that?"
"Not always," I admitted. "Sometimes I kick them in the balls or stab them in the stomach."
"Ha!" Massaging his neck, he stretched and stepped forward again, a grin on his face. "There you have it, people," he said to the room. "A perfect demonstration of what a girl can do to an over-confident asshole."
Laughter erupted all around, and Chuck joined me again on the mat, grinning broadly. "You came! When you didn't show up for a few sessions, I thought I would never have the opportunity to return the favor."
I stared at him. "The favor?"
"Hitting me." His grin widened a little. "Now I'll get to hit you as much as I like. But don't worry, I won't use a car in the process."
"Well, thanks so much," I said, trying my best to sound sarcastic. But I couldn't help grinning back at him. "Do you want to try and strangle me as well?"
"Hell yeah! Die, you filthy gangster! Die, you murderous hitman! Excuse me, I mean of course: Die, you murderous hitwoman!"
With the advantage of surprise gone, I wasn't lucky enough to get in another punch with Chuck. Still, I enjoyed the lesson—sort of. With sweat running down my face and my arms aching from the strain, all thoughts of depression were temporarily driven away. Plus, I lived with the sweet knowledge that I was annihilating all the calories from a freshly consumed bag of gummy bears.
When, about an hour later, I stumbled back into my apartment, covered in a mosaic of hurts and bruises, and Lucky trotted closer to inspect the wreck, I raised a warning hand.
"Don't say a word! Don't you dare even meow, do you understand?"
"Meow."
"You always have to get your own way, don't you?"
"Meow!"
"Oh, go sharpen your claws or something!"
Slumping down on the beanbag in the corner, I gave a tortured groan. "All right, all right, I know this was a terrible idea! I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out. And not by a nice guy with clean teeth, either, but by a horrible monster with dragon-sized tusks!"
I knew I shouldn't go back. Every muscle in my body was telling me unequivocally that I should never, ever go back. And yet... and yet...
And yet I knew I would.
And that had nothing whatsoever to do with being punched and prodded for hours. It had to do with Chuck's boyish grin, and the way he managed to make me smile, when I had thought that after Matt, a smile would never again touch my lips. It had to do with the way he managed to fill a tiny bit of the gaping, empty space in my heart.
I had lost the love of my life. But maybe, just maybe, I could still have a friend. And, okay, that friend might spend most of his time beating me into a pulp for money, but hey, nobody is perfect, right?
❤☠❤☠❤☠❤☠❤
I was given a reminder of how true that was one day, when I returned late from work after taking care of a tiger with carious teeth. I was just passing an electronics store on Second Avenue, when a picture on the screens in the shop window caught my attention.
I stopped dead.
It was me.
I had to say, I was rather flattered. I had never seen myself on TV before. True, it wasn't a very good picture, and the large, bold letters 'WANTED FOR MURDER' didn't make it look any better, but still—how often do you see yourself on CNN?
The newscaster beside my picture was saying something with a very serious expression. I stepped closer to the shop window, so I could hear what he said through the glass.
"Police are still looking for the suspected Alabama killer and black widow Cassy Summers, née McKinney, also known as 'the Nutcracker.' Citizens are warned not to approach Miss Summers if they should encounter her on the street. The suspect may be armed and highly dangerous."
Turning up the collar of my coat, I furtively glanced around to see if anyone was looking my way. Had anyone noticed my "armed and dangerous killer" vibes?
Nobody gave me a second glance—or a first, for that matter. Of course they didn't. This was New York. Anyone out at this hour of the night was armed and highly dangerous.
I loved this city.
But although I didn't attract undue attention, I took a few precautions over the next few days: buying new clothes, getting a new haircut—everything I could think of to alter my appearance short of shaving my head and buying a false mustache.
Anxiously, I awaited the next day and my colleagues' reactions. The receptionist's eyebrows shot up as soon as I popped my head through the front door of Darren's Dog Hutch.
"Holy blowfish! Cassy, what's up with you? Did you change your hair?"
I touched the tips of my hair, which now only went down a little past my shoulders.
"Yes. Why? Doesn't it look good?"
"Oh yes it does! It's so you."
"Really?" A tentative smile spread over my face.
"Yeah! That's a real killer haircut!"
My smile vanished. "Crap! Then I'll have to change it again."
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Hi, my fellow homicidal maniacs! :-)
What do you think of Chuck's self-defense classes so far? Would you like a teacher just like him? ;-)
Cheers
Sir Rob