I'm Imira Fadjir.

Muscle girl. Super-strong chick. VLADJI.

You know the drill. I'm the fighter of weirdness – whether that be monsters, crooks, or the guy who thinks he's a cat. I fight for truth, justice, and traditional values. All that.

Socialists. You don't love the word. If you knew what was really in those lies, you wouldn't go for it. But they never mention it. Clever and shrewd of them, not saying their cause by name. That'd scare everyone off. But to heck with them and what they think. Ah, if only they'd mind their own business instead of nosing into decent people's.

I believe in not nosing into decent people's business.

Which is why what happened behind the Sam's Club was completely insane.

I was heading back to my house with a package of halal beef for my stepmom's restaurant. And no, I hadn't asked for the errand. Mom makes these stupid demands, makes me her errand girl, just because she couldn't make me help around the house or the restaurant like she would have wanted. (It did get her almost arrested, after all.)

Here's the thing: my stepmom ran the restaurant. In Muslim culture, the women are in charge of meals. It's one of the ways our religion sets apart females and males in society. The idea is that the man respects the woman's weaker strength or whatever, and the woman respects the man. Given my bleak prospects on marriage, I don't see much of a point.

This Sam's Club was a prime place for crime, so I was just walking fast, minding my own business, and trying not to think about the fact that it was late at night.

Then I heard the voice.

"Just leave me alone. Don't hurt me."

The voice sounded like it belonged to an old man.

"Just give me the money, old boy, and I won't hurt you," said another voice – much younger, definitely belonging to a mugger.

"I gave you everything!"

The crook then said something I can't repeat. Basically, he was going to pound the old man.

"Just finish out the errand, Imira," I scolded myself. "Don't be an idiot."

Which was when I heard some other voices in the alley. Three gangsters total. Yeah, that definitely didn't look good for the older guy.

I scanned the alley for anyone else. Then mentally slapped myself. Anyone who would be out here would be too smart to show up in this alley – certainly not at this ungodly hour. Most would already be in bed, unlike me – and parental demands were to blame on my account.

I then found it – a cooler bag like the kind you might find at Aldi, sitting on a fire escape. What it was doing in this alley, I didn't know, but I was grateful. I set the package in the bag and snapped it shut, then set it down on the sidewalk.

That should do until I get back, I thought.

I glanced around the wall again. Outside, the thugs had lost patience with the older man.

"Let's just thrash him," I heard one of them say.

That's when I decided to announce my presence. I grabbed a dumpster and threw it in their direction.

Yeah, a dumpster. Not something an ordinary girl could've lifted. Luckily, I wasn't ordinary. I'd always possessed some serious strength, but I wasn't always in control of it. Only in recent months had I learned to harness it to the point where I wasn't injuring people unless it was on purpose.

CRASH! BOOM!

"What was that?" yelled one of the punks.

I stretched my hijab out to rope length and lassoed the lamppost.

How did I do that, you might ask? My hijab, the headscarf worn by Muslim women and girls, was woven from Nemean lion shedding (yes, gross), which meant it was virtually bulletproof. It was also capable of stretching out to any length I imagined – the reasons for that ability I'd never figured out, but I didn't question it, as long as it was useful.

I then swung into the fight. Super cool that I could swing in like Tarzan, yes. But it got the thugs' attention on me, which was what I wanted to happen.

"Hey, what – WHOA! Who the heck are you, girl?"

"Just a girl. We can take her."

Just a girl? I thought. Excuse me?

I grabbed the nearest punk by the arm and tossed him into the wall. I heard a sharp crunch as he made contact that – I will admit – was quite satisfying.

"Hey, whoa!" Another thug lashed out with a knife.

Oh, boy, I thought, you just made this a lot more fun.

I flicked my hijab into a full shield. The knife only bent the material, but couldn't penetrate. I flicked my headscarf again, reverting it to full head-veil mode. Turns out (fun fact), a knife jabbed into a bulletproof veil will get thrown a considerable distance when the veil goes down – as will the unfortunate bozo who happens to be holding onto said knife. Knife Punk went straight into the side of the dumpster.

The third guy decided to go for the old man while his buddies were distracted with me. I wasn't sure where he was going with this tactic, but it was almost as cowardly as attacking me, if not more so. If he was going for the guy but not me – I was just going to give him what he didn't want.

"Oh, no, you don't!" I stretched out my hijab and whipped him in the keister like an abusive father whipping an unruly child with his belt. (Not that this has ever happened to me, but I've heard stories.)

The guy yelled and went at me.

I then caught Knife Punk staggering out the side of the alley. His sight was focused on the cooler bag.

I muttered some words Mom would not have approved of and charged after Knife Punk. No way was I letting him near my delivery. However, I was also cognizant of the other guy.

Attackers coming from two directions, I thought. Going to be tough.

I cocked my fist – I'd caught up to Knife Punk at this point – and punched him in the face. He didn't stand a chance. I looked behind me and nearly yelped. The other punk was closing in!

Not being prepared enough, I dove to the side. I figured the guy was the bullish juggernaut type and would have trouble stopping himself when he was in a rage. Sure enough, he tripped and landed on his buddy as the latter was attempting to get up, toppling him back down.

Neither of them looked in good shape, but they would survive.

Ha, I thought. You probably didn't even need the beef.

Then I heard the click of a gun getting loaded.

I whirled around. My mistake.

BLAM! BLAM! The first punk was back up on his feet, gun pointed. Dang it. I really should have taken that into account.

Thank Allah for the hijab. It flicked into a shield, blocking the bullets before they reached me. I hadn't exactly stretched it out prior, but it sometimes responds to my thoughts (keyword – sometimes). I was only grateful that this was one of those times.

However, I was still pretty ticked off at the guy. How dare he shoot at a girl? I grabbed a second dumpster and threw it – not even caring that he was in its path.

SPLAT!

So much for Gun Guy.

Alright, Imira, I thought. Get your stuff and go, call 911 and hope they can arrest these guys, and maybe you can still get home in time for bed.

I had forgotten one thing.

BLAM!BLAM!

"Get out of here, you… you mutant!" the old guy yelled, pointing the gun – which he must've taken off Gun Guy – at me.

"Okay, I'm going!" I shouted back. I found the cooler bag, grabbed my delivery, and took off for home.

And that, my friends, is one of the downsides of getting involved in others' problems.