Sam's published fanfic; tada!

Frank Dimico was dead. Thanks in most to Dave-aka-Kick Ass. Thanks also to Dave for the death of her father (though not directly; it was again blood on Dimico’s hands, hands which would never have had the opportunity to slaughter her remaining parent had it not been for Dave’s infamous naiveté and inexperience in her world of vigilante crime-fighting). With her father as sole casualty, the killer of her mother had been ‘taken out’, the goal towards which she’d been working since birth, studying any number of martial arts, building up a level of mastery with all manner of weaponry, and cultivating a rather advanced knowledge of ‘sweet-spots’; an anatomy of death, the kill-zones to which the slightest application of pressure (like the wrist-flick kiss of a butterfly-knife) would prove lethal. For any twelve year old girl, such an existence would be an ‘alternative’ mode of being (to say the least), but for Mindy-aka-Hit Girl death-dealings had been the only reality, driven by a father who was in turn driven by a searing vendetta; revenge.

And now it was done.

What next? Well, she was being enrolled into a public school by a (cop) friend of her late-father’s, Mark. It would be her first taste of schooling or any preparation for a future not involving the temperamental justice of a 45-calibre. And Mark was very concerned indeed, rightfully so. His main concern was how Mindy would react to the brutal social hierarchy, permanent fixture of any and all secondary schools. However the worry didn't lie in Mindy’s welfare, rather that of her peers; should they cross her in some way no amount of moral revision could possibly re-wire the near-totalitarian sense of right and wrong she’d had programmed into her by an equally zealous yet loving father. He wasn't judging her father, for certainly he’d had his reasons. Only situations had changed, and he feared a potentially damaging transitional period into a life that didn't call for bullet proof pyjamas or home security systems involving a yard rigged with explosives, among other things.

So there had been the laying down of some foundation rules.

Rule One; no fire-arms or any other lethal weaponry in the house (for he was now legal guardian, not that she needed one, and for the sake of appearances they would be living together as father and adopted daughter). Rule Two; the use of violence will be permitted only as a means of self-defence. Should she meet with a mugger in the street then fine, but not to the death (as daddy had instructed all ‘bad men’ deserved). Should she be approached by a school-mate in a manner threatening, then she was to use only evasive-defence and let a teacher dole out the punishments. Under no circumstances whatsoever was she allowed to use actual combative contact against fellow students; detention would suffice. And in any such school-related incidents should no threat be considered ‘to the death’. That was Rule Three. The most important.

Hardly reassuring was Mindy’s promise to abide by all the above rules. But now it was Monday, the very first Monday, and he was driving her to school, palms sweaty, dreading to think what would happen, whether he’d be paged at work about a school-yard massacre and be subsequently picking up a blood-rinsed Mindy from the school lobby, while her mates waited to be picked up in spattered body bags. But no, she was a good girl, really.

“We’re early; Dunkin Donuts on the way?”

“Mmm. Yes please Mark”

That’s right, sweet bribes.

Finally they pulled up curb side at the school.

“Now do you remember what we talked about?” he said sternly, handing her a whopping twenty-box split chocolate-cream with jam-filled.

“Sure” she said, getting out and reaching for her coffee through the passenger seat window, which Mark courteously passed to her from the holder.

“Where’s your bag?”

“Oh” she said, “still in the car”. Mark, again, courteously handed it to her, affording her these deliberate tests of his patience because she could break his neck in two if he didn’t.

“And what was it exactly that we talked about Mindy?”

“About how school is an environment in which violence is both discouraged and abhorred . . .”

“ . . .and . . .”

“ . . .and should I participate in any non-regulation contact, not excluding sexual, you’ll be very angry with me, and so will the parents of the unfortunate”

“Good girl. Now have fun”

“Right” she said between mouthfuls of chocolate, crumbs and cream tumbling from the roof of her mouth with every ravenous chew, settling on her white front in staining collectives. And finally he drove off, a little wobbly at the wheel in his panic, but he managed to sooth the jagged butterflies and merge uniformly with traffic after three blocks. Mindy waved frantically, grinning from ear to ear, chocolate stains and all, and proceeded to wash down a handful of jelly donuts with a suitably cooled swig of coffee. Hmm, cinnamon; reminded her of the beach for some reason.

‘And now’ she thought, spinning round to face the tired brick face of that impossibly square building, ‘now for school!’ She walked towards a madding crowd of sneaker-wearing ipod-toting adolescents, all of them at least three years her senior and suffering from volcanic eruptions of acne, pocking their smug faces like so many sceptic moon craters.

And she was equally smug, because Mark had only checked her bag; had he patted her down before they left the house, he might’ve found her pocket knives.

“Hey you!”

A jam smeared Mindy grinned and held out her hand to be shaken , eyes glistening innocently above a baking-sugar dusted nose.

“Hi” she said, “I’m Mindy. This is my very first day of school and I’m oh so very pleased to meet you!”

Before her stood perhaps the least attractive boy from a shuffling huddle of similarly C-grade specimens. He snorted, the right side of his mouth curving up in a sneer that dramatically unveiled great hunking train-tracks. She couldn’t believe they didn’t tent through his cheeks . . .

“Lunch money”

She stared, mesmerised by the braces. Then snapping back . . .

“Sorry, did you say something?”

The boy, maybe three years her senior, stepped forward, folding his arms across an inflated chest in a bid to be menacing; all he needed to do was open his mouth again.

“Lunch money; now!”

With that he put his hand out, expectantly. She cottoned on.

“Sorry” she said. He eyeballed her, indignant.

“What do you mean ‘sorry’?”

“I mean sorry, you can’t have it”

There was silence, lasting only a few minutes, but to Mindy and the practically-deformed boy in question, it seemed to stretch on and on, reaching for eternity in its simmering unspoken angst. He tried leering at her.

“Gimme your goddamn lunch money; NOW!”

“No” she said. Her eyes were cool and dead set on his, her face was still, her stance unmoving.

The boy, clearly agitated, had started to turn heads, and unknowingly the pair had drawn a crowd to them that expanded the longer Mindy resisted his increasingly heated demands. What Mindy wasn’t to know was that Earl (the boys name) had a reputation, one which up until that morning had never seen indifference the likes of this; rather, students younger and older did everything to avoid Earl’s wrath, not provoke it. But Mindy was doing just that.

And loving it.

“Give me your lunch money right now, or else!”

Uh-oh.

“Are you threatening me?”

The on lookers, now a teaming crowd, mouths agape in anticipation, looked from Mindy to Earl to see what scathing response he’d have to this ‘talking back’, an experience which Earl had been sadly deprived of since the ninth grade; year one of his reign. To their delight he visibly faltered, but only for a second before re-entering the forked hostilities of the ring, stepping up so close to Mindy that he could smell coffee steaming aromatically up from out of her cup. He slapped it out of her hand.

The crowd gasped. Together they turned to Mindy, and when she looked up from her coffee stained blouse she was met with a thousand orb-eyes, glassy with disbelief.

Slowly, she put her box of donuts on the ground. In silence were her movements watched, nimble hands followed in stunned unison as she deftly reached into her socks, kicking off her shoes and unwinding the concealing-tape.

Then she stood upright, legs wide apart, straight-faced but for the corners of her mouth, imperceptibly frowning with the brooding storm; and idly twirling a butterfly-knife in each hand, silver plated with ivory handles.

The crowd stepped knowingly back.

“Wha-what are you doing with those?” Earl stuttered, taking two steps back.

‘Sorry Mark’ Mindy whispered, and took three steps forward.


THE END