Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Women's Issues

The Fort Braggart Community Outreach Centre gymnasium. 1800 hrs.
Just when I thought I would never find a steady job, I had come across an ad in my local newspaper for a position I was born to fill. Volunteer Self-Defense Instructor Wanted, it read. Teach women the basics of self-defense, brag about fights you've never been in, and avoid having to prove yourself against a fellow male. No experience necessary.
After a brief interview during which I described the secret ops I'd been on and the bodies I'd left in my wake, I was hired. I showed up for class the next day.
I stood in the middle of the basketball court, surrounded by a circle of nine broads eager to learn the way of the warrior. They were all amateurs, dressed in sweats, tights, standard workout gear. I was wearing my CQB rig--black BDUs, body armour, respirator, and bandoleer of 12-gauge shells. They were about to learn what self-defense is all about.
"Welcome, pukes!" I said. They looked up expectantly. "Defend yourselves!" With that, I pulled the pepper-spray from my tactical pouch and gave them all a good dose. As they coughed and cried I continued. "You failed, didn't you? You failed to defend yourselves not because you are weak but because you are women. That's what I intend to fix."
I gave them a minute to finish vomiting. "My name is McFab," I said. "And I'm a mercenary. To you little girls, that means I shoot bad men. In fact...Defend yourselves!" I strode towards the nearest one, a slight drink of water who looked like a soccer mom on heroin, and kicked her under the chin, sending her reeling.
"You failed again," I said, as the others went to her aid. "You are victims, and you spend your time just waiting to be victimised again. Let me demonstrate." I paused. The soccer mom was coming to.
"Defend yourselves!" I barked, and threw a flash-bang grenade on the lap of the biggest one, a fortyish woman with bleached-blonde hair. Belay that. She had bleached-blonde hair until the grenade burned it off. Too stupid to cover their ears and look away, the ladies were all stunned and blinded by the explosion. My orderly circle of students became a pile of writhing victims.
"Why? Why?" someone moaned. One of them, a cutie in pink sweats, rose drunkenly to her feet and began staggering away, her sneakers still smoking from the grenade blast. I grabbed her ankles in a classic Belgian Takedown and drug her back into the pile. She was screaming something, but I cut her off.
"Everybody relax," I said. "You have nothing to fear but fear itself--and me attacking you. Now take five and sort yourselves out. Your vision should return shortly." I pulled a Snickers bar from my ankle holster and enjoyed it while the ladies recovered.
After a few minutes of general bitching and moaning--and a couple of more escape attempts--I got them back into some sort of order.
"Listen up, pukes," I said. "You're probably all thinking, 'wow, that guy's macho--I want to have intercourse with him.'"
"NO!" the blonde said. "We just want to leave...Please."
"That's just your burning scalp talking," I said. I helped her pat the flames out. "Now, are you gonna be a quitter every time someone savagely assaults you for no reason?"
"Yes!" they said in unison.
"And that is why you fail." I shook my head sadly. "Look at yourselves--crying your worthless guts out just because a little grenade went off nearby. You don't think muggers use grenades? And what about rapists? They all use grenades, it's their M.O.--that's Modulus Operatic, ladies."
"Muggers don't use grenades!" It was the hottie in pink.
"Say again? Did you say, 'I want another taste of pepper spray'?" I brandished the canister.
"No! No...I just...We just want to learn a little self-defense, not...Not this."
"You're hot, baby," I said. "So I'm gonna put this to you gently: Your attitude's gonna get you raped, stabbed, disemboweled, and eaten one day. Someone's gonna end up cutting your breasts off and making eyeglass cases out of them. I've seen it done."
"You're crazy!" another one said. I saw some nods of agreement.
"How many of you chicks have been to war?" I asked.
"I have," one said. She was a latina number, and the fittest-looking of the bunch. "I was in the Gulf--Marine Corps," she added. "Were you?"
"I couldn't get in!" I barked. "Medical--they said I cry too much. That's not the point anyway. The point is--"
"I say we kick this guy's ass," the latina said. She looked serious.
"Now, listen, broads, there's no reason--"
"Defend yourself!" she said, and was on me before I could get to my baton. I could have easily taken her, but the others distracted me by standing around laughing while she applied some sort of arm lock. I was about to counter it and over-power her when she punched me.

The McFab compound. 2100 hrs.
I was in familiar territory, nursing wounds earned in battle while the rest of the world basked in their own weakness. That Marine could really punch--I was still seeing double, but didn't mind since I was watching the new Pam Anderson show and figured four of those lovely funbags were better than two. Unlike most men, I respect chicks, and the hysterical broads at the Outreach Centre couldn't change that. I just hoped they'd all learned a lesson.