Date: Sat, 01 Jan 2005 10:47:24 -0800 From: RC in Sacramento Subject: Munchkin, chapter 16 This is a work of fiction. It depicts the often sexual relationship between two young girls. If this offends you or if you're not old enough to be reading this stuff, then get out NOW. If, however, you're where you want to be, then enjoy. MUNCHKIN Chapter 16 by Sacwriter Becka drove the Mustang to Joe's house and parked it on the street, and then she and Gia followed Joe up the driveway to the garage, which he unlocked and swung open. They had made the trip out there in total silence, and it continued, as they removed the tarps and brushes and paint from the garage before closing it down. But when Joe tried to help with laying the tarps down, the girls were adamant that he sit this job out. "Look, Joe, you dislocated your shoulder today," Gia reminded him, patiently. "If you want to be functional tomorrow, we have to immobilize that arm and get some ice on it, so you're off this job. No buts." "But my left arm's okay, I can help paint, at least." "No!" Becka shouted from the driveway, where she was busy stirring paint. "Joe, stop arguing! This job is almost finished, anyway. We're not going to risk your arm just to save us fifteen minutes on it." Joe groused and grumbled a little more before giving in, but he was secretly glad to be sidelined. His shoulder had stiffened up quite a bit. With that in mind he let Gia into the house and showed her where the medical kit was. When they left fifteen minutes later his arm was in a sling, an ice pack was strapped to his shoulder underneath his shirt, and Joe himself had been fortified with four ibuprofen. It turned out that he wasn't entirely idle, after all. While the girls were busy painting the walls, they had two sets of visitors. One was Adam Manning, the glazier who had agreed to repair the broken front window of Joe's house. He and one of his workmen arrived in the same pickup truck that he had been driving the day before, with a brand new sheet of glass mounted on a rack on the side. Joe unlocked the front door to let them into the house, and then stood aside and let them get to work. The second visitor arrived a few minutes later, a pinched faced little man in a brown suit who identified himself as Jason Albrecht, a claims adjuster for Aunt Mattie's insurance company, who had come to appraise the damage to the house. Albrechts' condescending attitude towards the three teens immediately alienated them, though. He started off on the wrong foot by insisting that he couldn't possibly do business with a minor. "I'm sorry, son, but I'm afraid we'll have to wait until your Aunt is back in town. She can come down to the office then, submit a police report and fill out the proper paperwork, and I'm sure we'll be able to process her claim and issue her a check at that time." Joe looked appraisingly up at the man in the off the rack suit with the pocket protector from underneath one raised eyebrow before replying. When he did his voice was firm, but seemed to have a slight tremor of exhaustion, too. "Uh huh. Mr. Albrecht, my Aunt told me that she had talked to her agent, Tim Kraig, and told him that I had complete authority to deal with your company in this matter. He agreed that it wouldn't be a problem. So please tell me what has changed between last night and today?" Mr. Albrecht drew himself up before answering, obviously annoyed at having his decision questioned, especially by some one as young as Joe appeared to be. After all, the boy couldn't have been more that thirteen or fourteen years old! There was no way on earth he was going to authorize a check and hand it over to a kid who wasn't even old enough to shave. What on earth could Tim have been thinking about? But before he could articulate these thoughts the boy in front of him held up his free hand to forestall it. As Mr. Albrecht watched, the boy gingerly removed his arm from its sling, wincing in obvious pain, and then slowly and with great difficulty used his injured hand to fish his wallet out of his pocket. With a grunt of effort he finally pulled the wallet out, and after painfully replacing his arm in the sling he used his left hand to awkwardly open the wallet before presenting it to him. Albrecht took it from him gingerly, feeling a strong rush of guilt at causing the injured boy more pain. In his discomfort, he failed to note the two teenage girls standing to the side, trying to hide their grins behind paint smeared hands. "Mr. Albrecht, I know that I look like I'm in eighth grade, but as you can see from my drivers' license I'm actually seventeen, and in fact I'll be eighteen in three months. Now add that to the fact that Mr. Kraig has already agreed that I can act as my Aunt's representative, and that this whole claim will probably come to less than five hundred dollars, then I don't see any reason why we can't settle this matter right here and now." The young man (Albrecht could no longer dismiss him as a boy, despite his appearance) shrugged to emphasize his confusion, then winced and hastily reached for his arm. Albrecht felt another flash of sympathy, but put it aside. "Hrrmph. Well, for one thing, your claim states that the damage to your domicile was not an accident, but was due to a criminal act of vandalism. And yet you have not filed a police report. May I ask why you neglected to do so?" "I'm sorry, but we didn't think it was necessary to file a report over a broken window and some torn up shrubbery. That's all we're claiming, anyway. As you can see, my friends and I are handling the graffiti ourselves, using leftover paint that was in our garage. I've also got pictures of the house before we repainted, and I got together some photos we took of the yard last year, so you can see what plants were destroyed. Uh, excuse me, but I think I need to sit down." The sympathetic feeling was back, as Albrecht noticed how pale the Munson kid had become. The two girls with the paint smeared clothing hurried up and took the boy by the arms, hastily helping him to sit down on the ground. Sympathy became concern, as the boy now looked on the verge of passing out. But when he hastily stepped forward to help, Albrecht found himself stopped in his tracks by the glares of the two girls. Their animosity left him feeling uncomfortable, as if he had just done something unpardonably wrong, and needed to apologize for it. "Look, uh, Joe. Are you, are you alright? Do you want me to call a doctor or, or the paramedics, maybe?" "No," the young man answered in a faint voice. "No, I'm... I got hurt at school today. I was supposed to see a doctor tonight, but I... I had to come here, first. It's alright, I can go see him as soon as we're finished. Um, Becka, could you please get me my backpack? Please?" "Sure, Joe," the older girl, the blonde one, answered solicitously. She gave Albrecht one final glare of pure venom, and then hurried away on her quest. Unfortunately the dark haired girl still sat holding the Munson boys' hand, and was concentrating her own accusatory glare up at him. Albrecht looked away, and tried to figure out how the collar of his shirt had gotten so tight. "Um, in my backpack I've got the pictures I told you about. I've also got a list of all the plants that were damaged, and last night I downloaded the catalog from our preferred nursery and figured out the replacement costs. And Mr. Manning over there already wrote out his bill for the window, he says he's done repairs for your company before, so he's on your approved list. Umm, that's it, I think. Do you need anything else?" Albrecht was blinking, more than a little impressed by the kid's thoroughness. When the blonde girl returned with the backpack and the papers it contained, he examined them quickly and decided that yes, there was more than enough here for him to settle the claim on the spot. In fact he had written checks for ten times as much with a hell of a lot less. Still, he had one more question before he pulled out the checkbook. "Everything seems to be in order here, son—er, Mr. Munson. But there is just one thing I have a question about, though." The two girls had helped the boy to his feet, where he swayed for a few seconds before regaining his strength. But he still looked so pale and drawn! Albrecht hastily pulled one of the papers out of the bundle the boy had given him, anxious to get this interview over with so that the poor kid could get some medical attention before he passed out. "This, uh, this invoice from Manning Brothers regarding the window they're installing? They've carefully itemized the labor and materials cost, but there is one entry here that I don't understand. See here at the bottom? `Minus $10 for slap down'. Could you please explain that?" Mr. Albrecht left after promising to process Joe's claim as soon as he got back to the office. As the insurance adjuster pulled away, Gia commented in her best Monty Python voice, "Tight arsed little twit, innit `e?" Joe laughed, but then yelped when Becka slapped him across his sore shoulder. "OWW! Hey, what was that for?" he complained, rubbing the offended part. He glared resentfully at the blonde girl, but she just grinned back in reply. "Joe, you are the biggest freakin' scam artist I've ever seen! `My arm, my arm, I've hurt my poor little arm. Have pity on me and write me a big assed check'. You faker!" Joe shrugged. "Well, it seemed like a better idea than trying to convince him how mature I am by throwing a tantrum. We never would've gotten a dime out of him that way. And what about you two, going all Florence Nightingale on me? You treated him like he was the guy at the pound who gasses puppies. For a minute there I thought he was going to whip out his wallet and pay me out of his own pocket." "You're welcome. Say, how come you have so much trouble relating to kids your own age, and yet you've got no trouble wrapping guys like old pinch face there around your finger? You did the same thing with Adam yesterday." "Maybe `cause I've never had an adult stuff me in a locker, or try to shove my head in a toilet. Christ, Becka, adults are easy." Becka laughed, then wrapped her arm around Joe's neck and pulled him into an affectionate hug. His shoulder was crying out in protest at the rough treatment, but Joe told it to shut the hell up. A hug by a girl as pretty as Becka Jackson was worth a little grief. "Well, whatever, we've still got to finish painting this house," Gia announced, turning back to the job at hand. "C'mon, I've gat a class tonight, we need to get a move one." Dinner that night at the Cameron home was a simple meal of soup and sandwiches. Phil and Bobby both had dates that night, George was going to be over at a friend's house pulling a transmission, and Gia was teaching a class at the dojo. Afterwards Joe, Becka and Johnny found themselves alone in the house, which seemed to echo in the sudden absence of most of its occupants. More than any other time since he had gotten there, Joe became aware of just how big and rambling the family's home really was. Whereas the rambunctious interplay between six Camerons filled the three story building up to the rafters, two Camerons and one tiny guest seemed to rattle around inside it like three peas in a coffee can. After the dishes and the kitchen were cleaned up, Joe retired to Phil's office to call Mattie and tell her about the progress on the house. Afterwards they talked for awhile, about nothing important, the act of conversation being more significant than the subject. A wave of homesickness washed over him. Not for the house that he had spent two hours at that day, but rather for the crusty, rough edged woman on the other end of the phone. The same woman who, even though she had never even met him, had welcomed him into her home and her heart without a second thought, when none of the rest of his relatives wanted anything to do with him. He loved Mattie, as much as he had loved his deceased parents. As far as he was concerned she was the only family he had, he refused to count the other `blood kin' who could not be bothered with a wounded and penniless boy with nowhere else to go. He missed her now, and felt the need to tell her about all the traumatic, tumultuous events of the past week. He wanted to confide in her, to spill all his problems into her capable hands and let her sort it all out for him. He wanted to do that, but he didn't. As he was hanging up the phone there was a quick knock at the door, which opened up just enough for Becka to stick her head in the room. "Hey, Joe. Are you almost done?" "Yeah, I just finished. Why, what's up?" "If you've got nothing else to do, why don't you throw on a sweater and meet us out in the backyard? Me and Johnny want to show you something." Joe shrugged. "Sure. Just give me about five minutes. Okay?" Up in his room, Joe pulled a sweatshirt out of the dresser and laid it on the bed. He removed his bad arm from the sling, then paused to flex and stretch it tentatively. It felt surprisingly good, he decided, and chose to leave the sling off when he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. For a second he smelled the scent of herbs and medicine, and remembered what had happened when he and the girls had gotten home that evening. With all the instincts of a parent, Phil Cameron's eyes had zeroed in on the sling around Joe's neck, and immediately demanded to know what had happened. His daughters had eagerly filled him in, gleefully retelling the tale of Joe's fight as if they had witnessed it themselves. They related the details as Milo and the D&D Kings had told them, and even added a few of their own flourishes just for the hell of it. Phil had listened patiently, expertly sifting out the fact from the fiction, and when they were finished he gave his orders with the confidence of an emergency room doctor. First he had Gia take Joe to the kitchen, with instructions to help him strip to the waist. Becka he sent to the garage to fetch one of the barstools from the set they kept there for patio parties. The patriarch of the Cameron family himself went to the upstairs hall closet to get the medical kit. In the kitchen Phil had Joe sit on the stool and examined the boy's arm, carefully handling it with large but surprisingly gentle hands. Eventually he nodded, and then confirmed Gia's diagnosis that the injury wasn't serious. From the med kit Phil took a small jar that contained an aromatic salve, which he carefully rubbed into Joe's tender shoulder. Joe thought he recognized the smell of menthol and camphor, but he couldn't even guess at what else the ointment contained. Whatever it was, it worked like a dream, as he found out when he tried to move the injured shoulder and discovered he now had almost complete mobility in it. "Wow! It hardly hurts at all, anymore. This is great. What's in that stuff, Mr. Cameron?" "Sorry, Joe. Secret family recipe. Handed down through the Cameron line for generations." Behind his back Joe could see Gia trying to cover a giggle with her hand, while Becka simply rolled her eyes. Later, as the three of them were heading upstairs to their respective bedrooms, Gia confided to him that the `secret family recipe' could be bought at Walgreens for $5.99 a jar. When Joe got to the backyard he discovered Becka and Johnny sparring, going at each other enthusiastically, each wielding a pair of wooden rods about a foot and a half long. Becka laughed as she attacked her brother, swinging her fighting sticks with a will, charging the larger young man who calmly retreated while blocking her every move, the sticks rebounding off each other with a loud clack that echoed off the walls like gunshots. The blonde girl grinned, and muttered some sort of jeer or challenge that Joe couldn't hear, but that Johnny apparently could. Suddenly Johnny stopped retreating and instead lunged, his right hand stick flashing past Becka's head by less than an inch, causing her to flinch. In an instant the tables were turned, and it was now Becka who was stumbling backwards, frantically trying to fend off Johnny's sticks as they probed her defenses. Johnny increased the pace, until the inevitable happened and Becka stumbled. Like a flash Johnny darted forward and to the side, his stick licking downward to hook his sister's ankle, flipping it upward and sending her crashing to the grass below. Before she could so much as flinch Johnny was crouching over her, one stick laid across her throat, the other raised high and ready to crash down and crack her skull like an egg. They froze like that in a tableau, until with a laugh Becka dropped the one stick she still held and tapped her brother on the arm. With a grin that matched hers Johnny rose, then held out a hand to help his adopted sister to her feet. From his position on the deck Joe watched in amazement, feeling like he should applaud, so he did. He clapped his hands and whistled enthusiastically, before climbing down the short flight of stairs to the grassy yard. "Man you guys were awesome! I've never seen anything like that before in my life. What was that, what do you call what you were doing with those, those sticks?" "It's called escrima, and people like me who practice it are called escrimadors," Johnny explained, handing one of the wooden rods to the younger boy. Joe was surprised to see how light the fighting stick was. What was this made of, anyway? "That's rattan, that's why it's so light," Becka explained, and it was as if she could read his mind. But she only did that with Gia, though. Right? "Yeah, I know, I had a lot of trouble believing how strong it is, too. But they make furniture and stuff out of it, remember? And believe me, it hurts like hell when you get hit with it." "She's right. Escrima originated in the Philippines, and rattan is the traditional material for fighting sticks over there. Here, watch this." Johnny stepped back into the center of the lawn, where he adopted a precise stance with his two fighting sticks upraised. For one long moment he froze, unmoving, then suddenly he seemed to simply explode. The young Latino sprang forward danced across the lawn, there was no other word for it. Every movement was a thing of precise and deadly grace, attacking, retreating, maneuvering. The two sticks in his hands were a half seen blur, weaving a pattern of flying wood that no enemy could penetrate, broken by striking blows and kicks as swift as a snake. Johnny shouted and growled explosively, just like in the karate movies, counter pointed by Becka, who was hooting and cheering her big brother on as if he was playing in a football game. It ended just as the sparring match he had witnessed between the two Cameron sisters had, with Johnny suddenly freezing in place with the final strike, and then slowly drawing himself up into a position of attention. Then in all solemnity he bowed towards his imaginary opponent, before turning to his audience with a satisfied smile. "So what do you say, Joe? Want to give it a try?" Joe blinked, then licked his dry lips before replying, "Um, yeah, sure." * * * Joe had been laying on his bed, leafing through one of the martial arts manuals the Cameron's had loaned him, when the soft knock on the door came. He saw the door open a crack, then sat up and lay the book aside when Becka poked her blonde head around the corner. "Joe? Are you still dressed?" "Yeah, I'm decent. C'mon in." Becka slipped in, closing the door behind her. She moved the manuals on the bedspread aside and flopped down on the mattress next to him. She looked at him and smiled, then reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair away from his eye. When she did that she exposed a red abrasion that was just beginning to darken. "Sorry about that. I get carried away sometimes." "I almost got carried away." "Oh, stop being such a baby, there's not even going to be a bruise. Next time, try and duck a little faster. So how's the shoulder feel?" "A bit sore, I was being careful not to use it too much. I put some more of your Dad's ointment on it." "Yeah, I know. I could smell it when I came through the door. You'd better go light on it tomorrow, or they'll clear the classrooms on you." The teasing smile on Becka's face slowly faded, and Joe could tell that she had come in here for more than just small talk. A tiny ball of fear and shame began to churn in his stomach, as his mind tried not to think about the topic of the conversation to come. "Um, listen. You were kind of out of it down there tonight, weren't you? I mean, the other night when you and George were sparring, you were into it, you know? Enthusiastic, like you were really interested in learning how to fight. But tonight, with Johnny... I mean, it's like you were just being polite. I could tell you didn't want to be there. So what happened, Joe? What changed?" Joe looked away, avoiding Becka's blue eyes, wanting to avoid even more than that. He groped for an answer that would satisfy his friend without forcing him to reveal too much. "It's, um. It was nothing, really. It was just, my arm hurts. I didn't mean to disappoint you guys. I'm s-sorry." Joe winced at the way his voice broke. Dammit. Becka was staring at him, her gaze probing. After awhile she turned over and lay back on the bed with her hands clasped under her head, staring up at the ceiling, letting out a sigh that puffed out her cheeks. "Bull. Shit." Joe winced, then fidgeted, knowing he had been caught in a lie. "What changed was what happened at school today, wasn't it? And I'm not talking about you decking Ray Nestor. I'm talking about this morning, when Gary Harper and his jerk-off friends laughed at you. That's when that little prick took away everything, every bit of confidence you'd built up in yourself over the last three days. He laughed at you, and suddenly you felt like you were nothing again. Your eyes got all glazed over, and you went somewhere else, didn't you? "So where did you go, Joe? Were you back in that boy's room again? Were they standing over you again, holding you down, pulling your pants off?" Joe gasped, all the air leaving his body when that cold, icy hand clamped over his ribcage once more, and squeezed. *How did she know that?* he shouted inside his head. "And then he did it to you again after school, too. He pointed at you and he laughed. Cut you down to size one more time, even after you proved yourself to the whole damned school with Nestor. "And that's why you were just going through the motions tonight. You know now that in the long run, it won't make a damned bit of difference. No matter how good you get, how strong a fighter you become, you know that Gary Harper will always have your balls in his pocket." Joe could feel the blood that had rushed to his face, making his head feel like it was going to explode with the power of his tumultuous emotions. He tried to talk, but his throat was so swollen that it came out as a croak. "What... how do you...?" Becka laughed, a bitter sound that echoed old pain. "What, you think you invented that shit? It's why I spent six years pounding kids like you into the mud. I was trying to prove myself, prove to me, that I wasn't helpless. I did that. And you know something? It never worked. I never was able to stand up to him, either, no matter how many times I kicked ass." Joe swallowed, remembering who that `he' was. She had told him the whole evil story, while getting bombed together on imported beer out in her back yard. "But... I mean, you finally did stand up to him, didn't you? I mean, you told me you did. You said--" Joe's words just seemed to taper off. She did stand up to him, he remembered. Becka sighed again, deeper this time. Her eyes drifted out of focus as she looked at something that was nowhere inside that room. "For a long time, Joe, I was in a really, really bad place. For all those years after my Mom died, it was like I was sinking, and I had to keep fighting every second of every day just to keep from drowning. There was no place that I felt safe, and nobody that I could trust to help me. I mean, I know now that that's not true, there were people I could have gone to, but that's the way I felt back then. I really thought that I was just going to die someday, maybe soon, and that no one would care and it'd be like I never mattered in the first place. Like, like I'd never really existed at all, you know? "And then this little girl from some rich family comes along, and she kicks my ass. And she doesn't leave, and she doesn't take any of my bullshit, and she doesn't believe that I'm nothing. And she tells me that she loves me, and she means it. "I know I finally stood up to Ralph, but for most of my life he was my own personal boogeyman. And I couldn't fight him, not while it was just about me. I could only do it when he tried to kill Gia. What he could do to me, what he just had done to me, it didn't matter any more. All that mattered was stopping him from hurting her." Becka shrugged, and looked up at the ceiling. "And so I took that beer bottle he had just raped me with, and I cut his face open with it. And I haven't been anybody's victim ever since." Joe swallowed, his throat and mouth suddenly dry, trying to think. He had been given an awful lot to wrap his poor, bemused mind around. "So... if that was when you stopped being afraid of him, what was that thing you did at the hospital? When you said you rolled your wheelchair into his room, and you just stared at him. If you weren't afraid of him anymore, why did you go and do that?" Becka snorted, and grinned, remembering. "Oh, yeah, that. That was just the period at the end of the sentence. I was telling Ralph that now it was his turn to be afraid of me." Joe stared at the beautiful blonde girl sprawled on his bed, hearing the positive relish in her voice, the grim satisfaction that spoke more than words could of just what she was capable of. He felt a strange thrill climb up his spine. Her last words were calculatedly casual, yet there was something haunting about them, too. Even after hearing her story, and knowing what had been done to her, for the life of him Joe could still not see this daunting girl as being someone's victim. They talked for awhile longer, mostly of inconsequential things, leaving the more dangerous topics alone by mutual consent. Finally Joe pleaded fatigue and said he wanted to turn in. He was sure Becka didn't believe his lie, but she conceded anyway and left him to himself, so that was okay. When she had gone he rolled over to the spot where she had lain and pressed his face there, and felt the lingering heat from her body. On the pillow he could smell a faint scent of tropic fruit, and knew that must be her shampoo. The thought of Becka wearing perfume just didn't fit. He felt that this palpable reminder of the presence of a friend should have comforted him, but somehow it didn't. He went into the bathroom and showered, then put on a fresh pair of shorts and slipped between the sheets, turning out the light. Then he lay back and stared up at the dimly lit ceiling that had fascinated Becka so much. And finally let his mind pick at all the confusing thoughts that she had set loose in his head. She knew. That one undeniable fact stood out from all the others. Becka knew exactly what he was feeling. She had even put it into words a lot better than he ever could. She had been where he was at, this same hell of self loathing, only she had delved much deeper into it that he had. And had somehow managed to come out on the other side. *Yeah, but how?* Joe sighed, then turned over and pounded his fist into the pillow. It didn't his feelings of frustration any, but still he did it again and again, until his fingers hurt. She had done it, alright. Fought back, stood up to the monster who could rob her of her soul with a single sneering word or a vicious laugh. But she had only been able to cross that barrier because her monster had attacked someone she loved more than herself. So how the hell could that help him? The only person he loved was his Aunt Mattie, but the thought of that tough, one-legged old warrior needing any help against a punk like Gary Harper was ridiculous. She would tear him apart like a recalcitrant two-stroke engine, and leave the parts lying on the floor. And besides, even Harper would never be stupid enough to try her, anyway. No, Joe knew that he would never free himself from his `own personal boogeyman' by playing the white knight. *So what are you gonna do, huh, hero?* Joe asked the darkness. But there was no answer. It was a long time before he fell asleep. Waking up in the middle of the night, in a strange room with a hand over your mouth, is not a pleasant thing to do. But when you open your eyes and the first thing you see is two disembodied heads floating in the air, then you've created an instance that may someday lead to lot of expensive therapy. It doesn't matter if the heads are those of two beautiful girls, or if in the next instance you realize that the reason they appear to have no bodies is because they are dressed all in deepest black clothing. It's too late, the moment has already come and done its damage. Joe rapidly blinked the sleep from his eyes, his heart still pounding, staring up at Becka and Gia hovering over his bed. Gia was smiling impishly down at him, but it was Becka's hand over his mouth. And when she leaned over his recumbent body, the words she whispered slipped past the most mischievous grin he had ever seen. "Wakey, wakey, Joe. It's time to go get your balls back." (continued)