Annie of the Undead

by Varian Wolf

  People let me do my business. I threw myself into the bags, delving deep into my training zone, the place I would go where the rest of the world slipped away, and all I could see were the faces of the people I wanted to beat to a pulp. Take that, Mom! And that, Tim, you kiddie-raping shit! Take that…

  So I didn’t notice the quarrel developing between a couple of the other clients until I was hit in the side of the head by a boxing glove. There just happened not to be a hand in it.

  After reflexively ducking and looking to pulverize my assailant, I realized where the glove had come from.

  “Give it back, you bloody Yankee. Give me back my bloody glove!”

  “The only way your gloves’d get bloody is if you bled on ‘em yourself,” sneered the guy holding the apparent partner of the glove that had disrupted my workout. He was dangling it high over the head of a distinctly tiny girl. Fewer than five feet high, Asian, dressed all in black spandex, and with an insane puff of shocking pink hair on her head, she cut quite the displaced figure in an establishment like this. I almost thought I recognized her from somewhere until I saw the hairy black cur tethered to the bench beside her, and that I knew I recognized. Less than twenty-four hours before, it had tried to deprive my vampire of the honor of ripping my throat out. It was the dog, and she was the guide from that ghost tour.

  Then, as I was staring at the slathering creature, bouncing off the end of its leash like a yoyo trying to get to its master’s tormentor, the other glove hit me in the face.

  Rrrrr.

  I walked over.

  “My uncle is an agent for MI-6,” the tiny girl warned in the hard kind of British accent you’d expect a chimney sweep to have, not a tiny spandex ninja assassin. “Do you know what that means? I call him, and you disappear and spend the next ten years in a black box no bigger than a tea cozy.”

  The fighter giggled, holding back the tiny dynamo with one hand on her forehead while she punched the air in atomic fury. A couple of his friends stood by, egging him on.

  “So which one of you hit me with the gloves?”

  The slim fighter turned to look at me. I immediately sized him up. He was twentyish, lightweight, confident, and fit, but not imposing –oh, and zit-faced.

  He didn’t even bother sizing me up.

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said, then turned his attention back to the still-punching Brit-Asian-bomb-spandex ninja-whatever-she-was. He pushed her back, causing her to fall into the bench to which her hairy monster was tied. The bench fell over, spilling her impossibly small backpack, covered with something like ten thousand pin-on buttons, on the floor, and flipping the dog into the wall like it was on a catapult. You’d think the dog would be finished then, but it sprang back to the end of the tether with renewed furor, gnashing and foaming at the mouth like a miniature version of the hellbeasts that had attacked me in the junkyard.

  “Hey, you better get that dog to shut up, before I crack it,” he said.

  The girl gathered the struggling monster into her arms.

  “I’m protecting you from him,” she warned. “Not the other way around.”

  “Hey!” called the big coach from across the room. “Get that dog outta here!”

  “Jesus Christ goes where I go!” proclaimed the little girl.

  “Well then you can both get out. No dogs allowed in here,” said the lightweight.

  “But there’s another dog right over there,” she pointed across the room to an old yellow lab lying beside one of the rings. “Chap has even got his own food bowl and water bowl. It looks to me like he’s settled in.”

  “Duke is Mac’s dog, and Mac’s been here eight years. He’s proved himself. Only way you get to keep your dog in here is to prove yourself. You gonna prove yourself?”

  “I untie Jesus and you’ll get all the proving you need,” she answered.

  Oh, Jesus Christ…

  “Hey, glove-throwing boy,” I said, backhanding the lightweight in the arm hard enough to ensure he’d be offended.

  As I had intended, he turned immediately to face me, offense on his face right where I had put it.

  “It’s been a good six months since I’ve had a decent workout, and there I was, beating the hell out of the memory of the last asshole I had to trash, and who comes along but some punk who thinks that a few lessons after school makes him a champ who gets to throw shit around and shove people down when he feels like it.”

  He looked a little stunned. I helped him out. I pushed him again with my glove.

  “Yeah, I pushed you. So what are you gonna do about it?”

  He edged closer to me, trying to use his height the way people always do.

  “You should watch yourself,” he said.

  “Oh, come on now, girls and lads,” said the girl with the tribble from hell. “Let’s all be civilized. Don’t fight on my account.”

  “No, let’s,” I said. “I don’t have a dog. So I fight you and that dog gets to stay.”

  “What?” The fighter laughed, as did his friends. “You want to fight me?”

  “Oh, if you don’t think beating you is enough to prove me, then I’ll fight whoever you pick.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You up to it or not?”

  “Well, fuck yeah, but...”

  “Good. Let’s go, Tiger. The ring or the street? Gloves or knuckles?”

  I could almost feel the heat of the fight already. I had just about convinced the kid to go for it, but somebody was about to try to rain on my parade. Stringer came over from the ring to see just what was going on.

  “You getting into trouble already?” he asked, looking at me.

  I shrugged.

  “Chick wants to fight me over a dog.” The skinny guy laughed.

  The big fighter looked at the kid, then back at me. “Naw, let’s save fightin’ for day two at least. She said she been out of trainin’ for a while.”

  “All the better,” I said. “I like to dig right in. What do you say, champ?” I asked the kid.

  “Now, Chad,” said Stringer before my prey could answer my challenge. “This ain’t somethin’ you want to get into. Trust me on this one.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Not if you’re a pussy.”

  That almost set Chad off, but Stringer’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. The other fighter spoke close to Chad’s ear in a voice meant just for him to hear. “You got all these people watchin’. You really want them to see you beat up on a girl? That ain’t gonna make you look good, man.”

  “Backing down from me will make you look even worse,” I warned.

  “I’m not backing down from you,” proclaimed Chad, but he still looked confused.

  I cleared things up for him. “But I bet you’d go down on me.”

  Stringer stopped the kid’s lunge with his big arms. Then he gave me an irritated look.

  I smiled.

  “Listen, Chad…” Stringer began again.

  But another party interrupted them. It was the wiry old coach. By now we had gotten everybody’s attention in the place, and this just wasn’t the kind of situation a good coach could not stay out of.

  When the smoke from his cigarette reached my nose, I suddenly realized I hadn’t had one in days –since Michigan. That was funny.

  “Hold on there, String,” he said in a robust smoker’s rasp. “Why don’t we let this play out?”

  Stringer looked at the coach with surprise. “You serious, Mister Rawls?”

  “Sure. Let the kids have their fun. Maybe we’ll all learn something.”

  He looked at the lightweight, then at me. Something in his expression told me he was up to no good.

  “You really a fighter?” Chad asked with extreme incredulity, looking me up and down.

  “On and off.”

  “Oh, most definitely she is,” said Stringer. “You do not need to doubt that.”

  Stringer looked at the coach suspiciously, apparently sensing the man’s intentions as I had.

  “You’
re in dreadful trouble now, lad,” pronounced the little British girl, who had for some time been watching the discourse with wide-eyed interest.

  “Come on,” said the manager. “I’ll clear the ring for you.”

  Then he walked away.

  “Outta the ring, boys,” he said to the fighters waiting for him inside, “Time for exhibit B.”

  Having gotten what I wanted, I followed quietly.

  “You’re dead,” said the lightweight.

  “Not yet,” I answered.

  The Asian-British-Whatsit followed, crazy little hairball in tow.

  I donned my headgear and popped my mouth guard into place. No one mentioned a chest protector, which was fine with me. Guess they figured I could just go ahead and get my boobs bruised.

  I didn’t intend to let him hit me that much.

  We climbed inside the ropes. The coach got in with us. He was going to treat this like the real thing.

  “All right. Annie and Chad, everyone.”

  The manager backed off and said my favorite word in all the world.

  “Fight!”

  Chad didn’t immediately come in for the kill. He wanted to school me, but, like most males, the idea of putting a glove in a girl’s face, even in the ring, was not something that came natural to him. Instead of going on the offensive, he danced around, looking cocky.

  “Come on,” he stoked. “Let’s see what you got! Come on!”

  I let his discomfort build.

  “Come on! Come on, bitch!”

  I moved in quickly, feinted right, circled him, feinted left, then came into him like a bull, delivering a combination of rights and lefts in hooks and jabs and a straight that left him staggering back, more from surprise than real damage –I hadn’t hit him that hard. I was still warming up.

  There were quiet exclamations of surprise from our spectators.

  The Asian girl, lacking the solemn decorum of fighting people during a match, yelled at the top of her squeaky voice as she hung through the ropes, “She’s going to spank you!”

  My opponent shook his head to get his bearings back. Then he came back at me mean. I dodged his first several throws, then moved in and hooked him hard in the soft places. He hunched, the wind knocked out of him. I was a lot shorter than he was, and he had failed to use those long arms to keep me away and protect his body. He had paid.

  I came in again. He blocked me and pushed me back. He feinted and tried a right jab and a left hook. It was a stupid move. I easily dodged. Then I tried to come in, and he clocked me right in the jaw. I came at him right on the other side of it, which surprised him again. He managed to protect his body this time, but I was charged now, and I loaded my blows, pummeling him until he had backed all the way to the ropes. He got off them, and we traded blows. He hit me in the mouth, and I tasted blood.

  After that, I let him have it. I moved to where I felt most at home –inside, and I stayed there. I started bringing him down, piece by piece. He became Tim and Diva and my mother, and every other fucker I wanted dead, like every opponent I had faced before him. His arms fell, and then he was mine.

  The manager let me hit him like that half a dozen times before he blew the whistle. I almost didn’t stop. Almost.

  Given the opportunity, my opponent rested on the ropes, catching his breath and watching the room swirl. He was bleeding nicely. When he had gotten his senses back enough to realize we had stopped, he gasped, “What…what are you stopping for?”

  “This fight’s over,” said the manager, putting a restraining arm across his chest.

  When he was certain he had obtained obedience from the dizzy fighter, the manager turned to me. There was a pronounced smile deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.

  “Where’d you fight before, kid?”

  “Up north,” I said and took out my mouth guard.

  “You a pro?”

  “Not now.”

  The old trainer nodded, shifting his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other innocently, but he was guilty as sin. He might as well have beat that kid up himself.

  “Annie,” he said, “welcome to our gym.”

  He took hold of one of the other guy’s hands and one of mine. He jerked my arm into the air and announced, “The dog stays.”

  Then he turned to the dog’s owner and said, “You keep that little shit tied up like a mummy at all times, you hear?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir!” she replied. Then she said to my opponent, “I told you you would get a spanking. That’s what happens when you accost an innocent…”

  I spit a mouthful of blood into the bucket, ran my tongue over my teeth.

  Yeah. That was fucking awesome.

  The assembled crowd began to break up. The pair of girls on the other side of the ring –the only other girls in the place, moved off with stunned expressions on their faces.

  “I can’t believe it,” said the girl with the dog, “You fought for my honor. You’re like Lancelot. You’re like a knight, only with knockers.”

  “Would you get that goddamned mongrel away from me?”

  “But I thought you liked dogs?”

  “Hate ‘em. I just know how it’ll eat at that kid now every time you bring that thing in here.”

  “Oh, you’re a sadist.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

  “Of course not. Wanting to harm people for your own pleasure –enjoying the memory of someone you have ‘trashed’ –that is known as sadism.”

  “I’m going to enjoy harming that drain clog that passes for a dog if you don’t get it away from me.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry.”

  She stepped away from me about a yard, then leaned forward as though speaking from across some kind of chasm.

  “My name is Yoki Hayashi. I am pleased to meet you.”

  She extended a hand across the chasm. I eyed her dog. It had a mean little face, like the Predator in miniature. What the hell are you…

  “And you’re Annie.”

  Just then, she turned to look at Chad, who was being helped toward the showers by a couple of his guys.

  She called out, “Clean yourself up a bit, and I’ll give you a nice boffing, you poor thing! I’ll fix you right up. This doesn’t have to come between us!”

  The kid, dripping sweat and blood, barely looked at her.

  “Poor chap, hasn’t even got it in him to accept a nice sympathy fuck.”

  “You just offered to sleep with that guy?”

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  Of course? I shook my head in confusion, got up, and started collecting my gear.

  “What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this anyway?”

  “Well, I’m studying ballet at the university, but I thought I ought to learn to protect myself. Do you know about the Louisiana Werewolf? He attacks young women out alone after dark, and I work on the streets at night…No, no. Not like that.”

  She waved away my look.

  “I’ll have you know I’m no kid. I’m thirty-two.”

  “You look twelve.”

  “But I boff like a porn star! –So,” she said with enthusiasm, “where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “Bad places.”

  “Well, you were bloody brilliant, sadist or not. Tell me, do you ever play drums?”

  “What? No.”

  I headed for the shower. The mad Brit followed, dog in arm.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. You see, I am in this band, the Gay Hippies, and our drummer is a wretched bore…”

  I dropped my gear on a bench, stripped, and stepped into the shower.

  “…We do a lot of charity shows because the public isn’t quite ready for our avant-garde sound. We’re a theatrical show, really. It’s the look, you know, the presence. And we all have presence. Jeanne is simply ace on her base, and Dru plays bongos as a pleasant weed-head should…”

  I lathered up, scrubbed, avoiding the tender areas that were beginning to swell. The little black mon
ster thrashed in its master’s grip, trying to kill the droplets of water that splashed in its viscidity.

  “…and I’m the frontwoman, of course –just the correct balance of goth and punk and beatnik –except our drummer. Trevor, ugh, he’s ghastly. He’s decent in bed –got a little wanker but a delightful tongue piercing, but he doesn’t know anything about music. You know, he actually thought that Sid Vicious was a pro wrestler? Can you believe it? The Vicious an overfed American meathead –the Vicious! We’re not exactly the Sex Pistols, but we deserve a drummer who can at least keep time. In the name of the Queen, is it so much to ask?”

  I started the rinse cycle, the little chatterbox still running.

  “If only we could get Los Tacos Guapos’ drummer. He’s delicious. Or better yet Demonseed’s. Yum yum. Do you know they’re the best band in town? If only we could convince them to let us open for them. You know, you would greatly increase our credibility with those blokes. They’re rather rough. Oh! They have a concert coming up on Friday. You should come. I could introduce you around, tell everyone how you saved Jesus and myself from certain and disgraceful dismissal…”

  “There is no way in hell,” I said as I toweled off.

  “I knew you would say that, but hear me out…”

  “Isn’t getting my face busted enough for you?”

  “Oh, dear friend, this isn’t for me. It’s for you. You’re practically screaming out for human companionship. What you need is for someone to gather you into her arms, give you a warm cup of tea, and tell you just how needed you are. And you are needed. The Gay Hippies need you.”

  “So you’re gay, huh?” I frowned, “And now you’ve seen me naked, so I’ll have to kill you.”

  That stopped her, for just a moment. Then she started to laugh.

  “Oh, this is part of your tough act. Where are you from now, New York, Los Angeles?”

  “Worse.”

  “Well, I cannot imagine a single place in this world that could be worse than the south side of London after a football game. You’ve never seen so many blokes, all running about trying to knock each other to bits over a bloody score. But hooliganism is mostly a pursuit for the lads. We ladies ought to have a smidgen more decorum than that…”

  I stepped into my underwear and pulled on my pants, noting the looseness with which they fit. I was dehydrated. I turned on the shower again and took a nice long drink.