I wrote this story because I was out walking early one day, and a dirty-grey van drove slowly past me. It didn’t stop, but it made me think about what it was like for a woman, alone, walking or jogging in today’s, often-dangerous society. I started and finished the short-story when I arrived at home from walking that day… “Titta-Kay,” is the name I called my beautiful sister when a child…
The legend of Titta-Kay
NB! Health-warning! *Do you have a Fur-burger, plus tiny pimples that turn into molehills or termite-mounds – and no hair on yer chest? If so, then this horrific tale of desire and erudition is for You!
Wordie-type-WoMD: [“The story you are about to hear is [probably] true; only the names have been changed to protect my innocence; My name is Sergeant Joe Friday, of the ‘Butchi-butchi Gammin’ Secret Police. & this; Is TK’s story.”
‘Shop Owner, Manager, fixer, and all-round shop dog’s body’, as she described herself, Titta-Kay Wegumbi, was out walking early one morning before work, when the truly-horrific ‘incident’ occurred.
Sleep is bewdiful!
Mrs Wegumbi, when asked about that day: “Same ole-same ole – you know the story!” TK said easily, when asked about that day. “3-am, couldn’t sleep… Lay for a while contemplating… ‘Nothing D & M, that’s for sure!’ Titta-Kay would have said if asked.
“I lay for a-while,” Mrs. Wegumbi explained, “wondering whether to try and go back to sleep, or jump online, or possibly write something. Ideas had been coming thick and fast lately. Some of the pieces were even well-written, I thought; A mix of philosophical ethics and The Mother’s cry for help; That’s what I thought at least, and in the long-run – that’s all that counts with any ‘Artist’, innit! I tell myself constantly. The big-G was still asleep in our bed; Curled up like a baby”. He must have slept like that when he was a baby, many, many years ago, I remember thinking before I dressed…
“Decided to walk. Beautiful morning anyway. I’m a confident walker; But, also a grown woman. I know the dangers. If I have to confront ignorant wolf-whistlers, the sleazy, and the like: “Hey babe! Whatcha doin’ out by yerself? Lookin fer a real man? eh?” type idiots. I ignore them mostly. However, I’m not the shy shrinking violet type either. I carry a torch night-time, and a Boomerang for day walks. I’ve had people laugh at both. However, the torch is quite heavy and, has functions available to give you time needed to attack back, or run. The ‘Rang’; ‘Is, was, and will always be’, a weapon and a shield; If you know what you’re doing and don’t panic.”
“The last weapon I carry, is hidden ‘I.P.S.’ [in-plain-sight] and quite handy: it is wrapped nicely around my waist. I always, but always, wear a belt when I’m out and about. [Btw; If the ‘Bully-man’ were to pull you up carrying the ‘Rang’, you should explain in no uncertain terms, that unless he/she has missed something rather obvious; that you indeed have a meow and breasts, and thus, a life to protect! That in fact, it would be wrong ‘not’ to carry something to protect myself – from attacking Pterodactyls, if it please you, Sirs/Ms’s’ Officer etc…]
The belt, is not a lightweight belt for show. The heavy metal-buckle at the end of four, five feet of decent leather or other strong material, is a weapon and shield to keep an attacker at bay, maybe six-feet from you. That’s a healthy distance, I think. I mean, I’m a woman, and history, including present-day News, says some men have certain ‘needs’, and that some of those weaker, shallow-breathing type of men, will attempt to satisfy those needs on finding a woman alone; Any woman alone. Via force if necessary. Apparently, it could even be a thought-best/good friend, that suddenly transforms into; ‘Raging creature with lotsa unfulfilled Lusts’, or [RCwluLs] after a six-pack and a heart-beat!’”
“It’s a difficult way to have to live, but it seems to me, and to put it quite simply: Because men can’t have ‘such’ themselves, they want/need to own someone else’s meow and breasts, and I’ve got both, see? So I must be careful, see you? Some men, will/would/have-done, take another’s life to cover their ‘getting’ the meow/breasts that they are afraid to actually ‘work’ for, if I may be so blunt. Thus, men’s instincts – although being instinctively pushed toward a physical confrontation with each other: to be The-One, the top-Dog as it were, on the other hand – many men’s instincts, seem to be to get ‘those two’ things in any hand; Quite often.”
So girls, unfortunately, and quite frequently, it’s mad-dog-instinct Vs your modern intelligence [and that would be ‘all the time when vulnerable’, as I see it; There are a lot of ‘if-the-chance-came-up, I’d do er’, lonely, stupid men]. I tell you the story below not to skite, but to warn of the real dangers of owning both meow and breast since time began; And, the life-saving value of being underestimated…
Hope for the best – but prepare for the worst
3.25-am; “I’m out walking through my neighbourhood streets and the false dawn is showing its first light; ‘mystical-dark turning to the first grey of morning’, sings my still-wakening mind. I’m three blocks from home, going north – I know that from checking the compass on my mobile once again – when a dirty-grey, high-top van rolls up beside me and stops a few van-lengths in front of me. The back door opens and what looks like a skinny, filthy-looking (fox-face?), man, looks smugly at me – as if he owns me, or at least wants to, I thought strangely.
Fight? Or flight? crashes through my mind. My body reacts by turning back away; but not reversing. I step left, toward the houses; Safety. Away from the filthy van and the leering foxy-faced man coming toward me. I mean literally! He’s wearing some type of fox-face mask, I see. I’m already in shock, but having thought of something like this happening and what best to do, I move to my left on an automatic impulse.
Abruptly there’s a scalp-tingling rush of air close-by, something almost touching me; A large body stumbles past – hands-out, arms outstretched. It crashes straight into fox-face, who goes down; Heavily. The other, bigger man bounces into the side of the van; Stunned by forces unexpected, and, that he had missed me at all, coming from behind like that, I guessed, suddenly feeling the calming weight of the metal-torch in my hand. As the larger man glanced around to gain his bearings, I saw he too, wore a mask. An ogre’s mask, I thought momentarily, spotting an ear poking out behind the cheap plastic mask. I took two quick steps closer and brained the big lug just above the ear with the torch. I always used the wrist-brace safety-loop, just in case I drop it, so it came back whatever happened. The blow didn’t draw blood, but it went in a tad, caused major bruising below the skin, left a decent indent, I saw.
The big man grunted and jerked a few times, as if he suddenly couldn’t understand his own body. A hand went to lift toward his head, then he fell to the gutter beside the van. He was big! I thought, glancing toward Fox-face. Couldn’t take the chance he’d get up quickly – get a-hold of lil’ old me – brained or dead? It was him or me. It’s still dark. I didn’t know these men; Never seen them or the van before in my entire life. Thus, survival of the fittest – of mind – not body – Fools! Has awoken, I thought almost happily, as I felt for the buckle on my belt for reassurance and gave Foxy my full attention.
Fox-face was rising groggily, even as the driver rounded the back of the van. I swung the torch sideways into Foxy’s temple area before he could rise fully, and let my body fall sideways, sensing the driver having rushed up behind me. I heard a soft awful wet noise, a cry of pain. Another cry, from another voice, this time of real anguish; Then silence, except for a wet-breathless noise that my mind couldn’t comprehend. Seeing my chance, I rolled away, and pushed to my feet facing them; To see that the driver had stabbed foxy, his accomplice; Right in the freaking chest, and it [the knife – the extremely large knife!] wouldn’t come back out. OMG! That, is just disgusting! tore through my mind.
However, driver/knifer man wasn’t one to give up easily, obviously. The man was wrestling the knife and holding Foxy’s weight, trying to get it out, which had Foxy’s semi-conscious eyes suddenly open, looking straight at me in horror. I prayed the driver would not put a foot on Foxy’s body somewhere, to lever the knife out; That would be far too much; even for me! I thought crazily.
It was indeed horrible, watching his ‘friend’, wrestling the knife struck well and truly in his rather thin chest. And, going by the size of what I could see of the knife, it was quite possible it had gone right through Foxy’s thin body. Foxy’s wiry hairy arms spasmed jerkily trying to stop the pain his accomplice was inflicting…
So little attention, paid they me… I suddenly thought insanely that they may have been in love? *Star-crossed lovers*! flashed before my eyes; Then, a you-tube memory repaid my watching such rot; A man shows you how to hit/punch a group of muscles in the neck to shoulder area, that would knock the person out like a light. There were examples of it working and exactly where to hit.
I stepped in toward what could possibly be a star-crossed lover’s final embrace, lifted the torch up and brought it down hard on the specified area. Driver-stabber’s entire body relaxed like he’d been pole-axed, and slid to the road, head against car. I hit him hard on the side of his drooping, semi-conscious head immediately. Mama didn’t raise no fools, I remember thinking. A glance at Foxy said he was semi-conscious, but not going anywhere by the looks.
However, I’ve seen all the movie endings, wherein; The ‘hero’ thinks they’ve offed the bad anti-hero; and lo and behold, the son of a bitch comes back for one last go at taking you with them! Thinking along those lines, I hit Foxy up the other side of the head this time, checked that he was out-of-it, forgot to check breathing and, as knife-man was offering, put a decently forced swing into the driver’s open-wide, unprotected throat. That stopped the groaning anyway…
News Live! Defenceless woman lucky to be alive! Would-be kidnappers knock each other out and into coma!
Apparently, according to the Police-report, “… the incident began at 3:33-am on such and such a day and was over by 3.40-am such named day, in the month of etc-etc. ‘The victim blah-blah, was a single woman [I am not!] out walking – alone – on public thoroughfares [how rude of me!] when three men in a dirty white high-top van approached and stopped a few van-lengths in front of said – lone female on street at night, in the dark, early hours of morning. [I mean! Fer God’s sake!] The men – all wearing cheap plastic creature-masks – allegedly attempted to abduct Ms. T.K. Wegumbi just a few blocks from her home.
But, in a series of ill-timed accidents, wherein the men tripped, fell and hit each other in falling, with one somehow stabbing another, the three men were rendered unconscious and are yet each one in a coma. Police were said to have praised Ms. Wegumbi publicly, as the men were societal predators. They had been roaming the country for several years. They either sold their unfortunate victims to anyone with enough money – no-matter the use, nor age – or used them for their own gratification; such, as were: “…not normal by any means in our universe,” a Senior Police Officer said after the investigation was closed.
Privately, it was heard that the political arm of the “Force”, nationally, was not at all happy with a private citizen wielding such [much-rumoured] brutal-force upon members of the public; Murderer/s or not!
“She, Ms. Wagimbi”, the Minister mispronounced, “was a very lucky woman… However, our legal forms of justice must be adhered to,” he said publicly.
‘This,’ he was heard to shout angrily, privately; “It’s Vijar-fucking-lante material! No matter who does it! And we need to quash it. Now!” His extreme anger radiated through the various online rumour-mills, right down to Mrs. Wegumbi: who heard about it via her local radio one sunny morning, while sitting on her humble porch with her many flowers and birds around her.
In a letter to the Editor of the nation’s largest-read Newspaper, current-affairs and entertainment site online, Ms. Wegumbi responded to the Minister and ‘All Men’ (Ms. Wegumbi’s Caps), via email;
“Dear Sir/s; I believe that my recent actions in saving my own life, have caused some concern regarding vigilante activities, within professional/Govt., Law-enforcement circles.
While I would never condone revenge-violence, the series of unforeseeable accidents that occurred to those men, while they were trying to abduct my person, was extremely fortuitous to me; my-own-self. I mean, no one wants to be thrown in the back of a dirty-filthy smelly van, by dirty, filthy, smelly, animalistic [sorry animals!] low-life men, and taken away – probably never to be seen or heard from again, and plus! To be used for simply unimaginable things, probably again; Before death!” she wrote, continuing.
“You men must understand. I’m different from you. I was born with breasts, globules of pleasure [NB! for the man, not the owner, as such]: Soos-soos, Tits, Tankers, Knockers, Melons, Bazongas, Bazookas and Hooters and plus; A meow. Now, many, ah… lots of men [present male company/readers not excepted] just can’t seem to help themselves around such female parts – especially those pervy strangers – or, in fact; When and wherever these two rather-common ‘things’ occur together!” she wrote, and continued.
“So then, even if I had a pet King-Kong trailing along after me, if I felt like a walk in the evening, that would be justified by any number of facts and figures you care to dig up re- ‘owners of breasts and you-know-what-sies’,” Ms. Wegumbi’s email said.
“So, a heavy torch and/or a boomerang, is more than justified!
Are you feelin’ me now? Sirs?”, she wrote and continued. “TBH; If I could, I would carry a 240-Volt lead with me and zap most Politicians and anyone who tried anything – even smiled at me sideways! Shocked or dead – it’s all survival to me, Sir. Coz, like it or double-lump it; I got ‘things’, “what ‘they’ want,” and, I have to keep me, and such, safe…” her message concluded. And, was read by 50+-million women worldwide.
Sales of heavy belts with heavy metal buckles, Boomerangs, and metal-torch sales increased exponentially worldwide in the following weeks…
The Minister for Policing, Racing, Gambling and Casinos, the Right Honourable Sir, Reginald Kartoffelkopf; BSc. MSc. BA.D, has not yet responded to Ms. Wegumbi’s remark; Apart from – mentioning, that:
“She really shouldn’t be using words like that in public; it’s indecent! Really!” he was reported to have said calmly, at a Press conference on ‘Women’s safety in Parliament’ recently. In private, that night however, old Sir ‘Reggie’ [well-known for spreading his ‘Reggie’ around] was about to ‘give-it’ [his day’s ‘sufferings’] to his long-suffering wife in their bedroom. It was not pretty.
Sir Reginald was shaking with rage for all the day’s anger and frustration, which he wouldn’t dare allow air at work.
“In-fuckin-decent black bitch!” he raged, wearing one of his wife’s bras and silk panties, while lying across their huge bed. “In-fuckin-decent! I’ll show her what indecent is!” he raged again, glancing at his wife. “Won’t we love!” he said, given as an order, and breathing shallowly as he eyed his wife in her specially-ordered birthday lingerie; that he knew she hated wearing. “Now, come here to Daddy, my bad little girl-darling baby-kins…” he said softly, gently, to his dutiful wife of many, many years – whom, unbeknown to him – was now firmly ‘in-love’ with Mrs. TK Wegumbi; And, was about to give ‘The Minister’, some down-home, lord-a-mighty, womanly Preachin’; Guaranteed, to solve his Election and erection issues once and for all…