The Lost Chapters
Part 3

I passed out against the door, my bags at my back, the jacket just enough to brace against the chill.

Often, people dream after a major emotional experience, it's their way of dealing with it unconsciously, picking through the debris of the day and sorting out the fact from the fiction. Why this often gets interpreted as either a desire to kill your father and fuck your mother is a mystery, probably telling more about the psychiatrist than the patient.

Myself, I simply blacked out, like someone threw a kill-switch at the back of my conscious mind.

-

'Check this shit out...'

'Oh, no, you're not-oh fuck! Ah, ha! Aw shit, that's right! Yeah!'

My left eye was a ball of pain. Something acrid and foul-smelling had hit me in the face, wet and hot, it trickled down my chin, threatening to creep into my mouth and nose if I tried to breathe.

With my one good eye, I saw a blurry outline above me, no, make that several. Tall, wide, men.

Then it hit me. The fucker was pissing in my face.

My fucking face.

Without making a sound, I brought one foot up as far as I could at a straight arc. The jet quickly changed course, wobbling all over as the water sports enthusiast jumped back to the laughs and cheers of the others.

It took all I had not to throw up. The pain in my eye and the stink was so bad I could feel bile eating away at my back teeth. I wanted to breathe, but my face was soaked, and the prospect of getting any in my mouth only made me want to chuke more. By the time I was on my feet, I realised someone was shouting something.

Clawing at my face and eyes, I spat on the ground and shook my head.

'The fuck?'

I got the other eye back online and managed to focus. The pisser wasn't the one in front of me now - he was behind a couple of others, his jeans spattered with his own piss, tucking himself away amidst the laughter.

'I thought you'd be used to it by now, girl.' The one in front of me grinned. His front four teeth were missing, with scabbed, fat lips surrounded by a thick, mangy beard. 'You're a long ways from Vice City. Got lost, did ya?'

The lackeys laughed at the godawful pun. Clearly, this wasn't territory used to the finer points of irony.

'Fuck off.' I managed, trying to at least sound vaguely threatening. I could see Toothy's patch on his collar - the Angels Of Death skull. I'd thought if I was on Lost territory, I'd be safe wearing the colours, but clearly, I'd missed that by a nautical fucking mile.

Toothy cocked an eyebrow. In a moment of vague horror, I realised there was half a slice of gherkin, the kind you get in cheap burgers, nestled in his bristly brow. I was all for the natural look, a bit of rough looked good on a guy, but this was a too much. Even a tramp would walk away after five minutes around the guy feeling like they needed a wash.

'You've got some guts for a piece of cunt stinking of piss,' he sneered, pushing a thick finger into my shoulder, shunting me back with more muscle than I expected off' his chubby frame, 'you want we should teach you some fucking manners?'

Oh God. I wasn't sure what teaching me a lesson was going to involve, but a dozen leery bikers against one semi-conscious woman wasn't good odds however you played it.

What was it you were supposed to shout? You never shout rape if you're being raped - people don't come. You've got to scream 'Fire!'. God knows why. Maybe people just like a show out of their public atrocities. Maybe that girl who got stabbed in Boston wasn't helped because she wasn't singing a little jazz ditty as she bled out on the sidewalk.

It was a stupid idea, but I didn't have much else to go on, other than run, which wouldn't be any good if these guys had bikes, which they almost certainly did.

'How about I teach the Golden Wonder over there some fucking manners?' Again, heavy on the menace. I'm tough. I'm a little crazy. I'll snatch your eyes out and skullfuck you on the way down. Yeah. God, please let him buy it.

Toothy actually laughed, shrugged and waved an arm at Golden Boy, who was mugging like a cunt, hands against his chest in a 'Who, me?' pose. After a moment of cajoling, they formed a little semi-circle around us. Golden Boy whipped off his jacket and puckered his lips at me with a wink. He probably thought he looked rogueish. Personally, he looked like he'd just had a mild stroke.

Forcing your body to do something it doesn't want to do can be hard. You've got to mentally or physically override the basic urges your body has. As he danced towards me, his hands half-balled, undecided as to whether he should slug me or slap me, I felt it come and bit down hard on my tongue to keep it in for a few seconds longer.

I could see him take the step forward, shoulder rolling back - he was going to drill me right between the fucking eyes. What a gent.

Without hesitating, I darted forward, grabbed his shirt with both hands and kissed him, hard on the mouth.

For a split second, everyone was silent, probably as confused as Golden Boy was. Was I some psycho slut? Did I like getting slapped about? You could've heard their scraggly little minds running overtime, working out positions and orders for each orifice.

Then, I really did chuke.

It was beautiful, and I really do mean that. Up close, I could see all those little, frantic emotions run across his face. Surprise, shock, horror, disgust, panic, then finally anger, he forced me back, almost throwing me off my feet as I coughed up more bile, spitting and gasping for breath.

Still, they didn't move. I didn't think it was possible to shock hardened, scabby bastard such as these, but clearly barf-smooching had not only passed the bar but set it somewhere in the rafters.

As he fell, gagging, to one knee, trying to bring up the mouthful of barf I'd force-fed him, I charged, determined to at the very least send him to the hospital before the others ripped me in half.

The first blow caught him in the neck, just a baby tap, given my state, I could hardly focus on him, let alone get any weight behind the punch. Still, it gave me enough time to swing another, some reserves of energy getting in line, this time scoring one right on the ear. Still, hardly a knockout punch.

I gave it one more try, winding all the way back like a cartoon dog lining the sneaky cat up for a haymaker, then brought it down right on the back of his head. It was much louder than I expected, really loud - for a moment, I thought I'd fractured his skull.

Then I heard another, exactly the same and worked it out.

Gunfire.

Oh fuck.