42 For want of leg-warmers and a side arm

Wake me up, before you go-go,

Don’t leave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo . . .

Maggie groped desperately for the knife, but the Figure yanked her back by the throat, pulling her through the doorway and into the Living Room.  She could feel that her air was running out and scrambled for another plan.  Her eyes darted around the room.  Yes!  Yes, that will do nicely.

Maggie fell to the floor and the Figure was forced to go with her.  She quickly laid back on top of the Figure, who tightened the cord about her neck.  She could feel the hot blood press against her eyeballs.  Maggie rolled over the Figure and crashed into a side table.  A lamp fell down onto both of them, but the Figure held on tightly.  Maggie’s vision was getting black about the periphery; she had to hurry.  Through the tunnel-vision, Maggie reached through the table legs and groped around beneath the couch.  Ah yes.  There was a sound of Velcro tearing loose and Maggie’s fist came out clutching a 12” long by inch-and-a-half diameter black tube.  She flicked the tube expertly and a long rod telescoped out.  The officer swung over her shoulder and beat the face of her assailant behind her without restraint, without remorse.  The Figure bellowed, the sounds muffled by a thick white ski mask and relinquished the cord. 

Maggie jumped to her feet and arched her weapon high, like a golf driver.  The Figure reacted quickly as well, however, and kicked Maggie in the gut with a heavy boot, sending her reeling across the coffee table.  Maggie thought she might vomit from the blow; she couldn’t get her breath back.  The Figure stood and squared off against Maggie for the next round.  From within the denim jacket, the Figure removed a large pocket-knife and unfolded it with an unsettlingly loud “click”.

“Ok,” Maggie huffed, “Ok, just . . . just hold on.”  She held up a single finger.  “One second.”  She walked to the door and politely shut it.  Still with the index finger up, she went to the Living Room stereo and powered it up.  She found that great 80’s station that she had been grooving to, and cranked it up:  Maniac from Flashdance.   Maggie’s eyes lit up, “I love this song! – Ok, now we can really get down to it, without disturbing the neighbors.  One wants to be a good neighbor, after all.”  From behind the stereo she pulled a standard issue police baton and swirled it around by its handle.  “Oops!  Where did that come from?”  And then she sang. 

Just a still town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life.
In the real-time world no one sees her at all, they all say she's . . . cra-a-azy

In one move Maggie smashed a wooden bowl with the police baton, sending it hurtling at the Figure, and then launched herself through the air directly behind it.  The Figure swatted at the bowl and Maggie brought a baton down upon each collar bone.  Explosion of broken pain.  She snapped upright, spun about and fluidly elbowed the Figure in the cheek and nose.

Maggie was in her element now.  Like a hawk that drifts effortlessly on mountain drafts, or a mare in full stride, this is what Maggie was made to do, and in her way, she made this dance of violence a thing of brutal loveliness.

Maggie snatched the white cord up before rolling across the back of the couch and disappearing.  When she came back up once again, she was grinning, “Oh, maybe I can use this.  Thanks – might come in handy, who knows?  Or . . . maybe this.”  From somewhere, Maggie found a small knife of her own, black-hilted, modest, professional looking.  She rolled up her sleeves, showing her tattoos and wide leather watch.

Then she whipped her assailant in the face with the cord and somersaulted over the couch to a squatting position on the floor.  She jammed her blade through those silent work boots and rolled quickly away.  The Figure hollered in agony.  Maggie, for her part, danced a Flashdance, prancing feverishly on her toes.  “I sure wish I had some leg warmers right now,” she noted, and began to sing along once again:

It can cut you like a knife, if the gift becomes the fire
On a wire between will and what will be
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor

The Figure, now armed with two blades, stood and advanced upon the ”victim”. “Oh no!” Maggie feigned, “I am unarmed, what should I do?”  The Figure stabbed at the red-head; but Maggie dodged the thrusts easily, did a pirouette, and kicked the Figure solidly in the chest.  One of the knives careened across the hardwood floor as the Figure stumbled backwards into a heavy wooden chair with beautifully upholstered cushions.  She clacked a pair of handcuffs upon the arm of the chair and the arm of the masked Figure before administering one last good punch to the face for good measure.  “I’ll take that,” she said as she slammed the Figure’s wrist against the other wooden chair arm, knocking the knife free.  A crimson stain began to spread across the white mask.

Maggie tied the Figure’s free hand to the chair with the electrical cord, and took a break.  Michael Sembello sang about hunger staying the night.  Maggie turned the music down some.  “So,” she began cheerily, “It took you long enough.  I have been waiting and waiting for you.  Listen, you never really had a chance.  I have more weapons hidden around this house than Mexican drug-lord.  Not to mention loads of professional training and more personal issues than Reader’s Digest.  So you shouldn’t feel bad.”  Maggie casually reached under the table and pulled out a respectable looking sidearm.  “I have to admit, you – you were a slippery one.  I couldn’t get you figured out, couldn’t figure out what turned you on.  I honestly didn’t think I had you, so, I gotta say, I am thrilled – thrilled – that you finally decided to show up.”  The Figure moaned quietly. 

Maggie approached her prisoner and climbed up on to the Figure’s knees, squatting over her prey like a gargoyle.  The Figure groaned beneath her weight. She pressed the gun against the Figure’s forehead, “Now, let’s get down to it, shall we.”

Maggie Kennedy pulled the blood-stained mask from the Figure’s head and fell backwards from her perch in sheer horror.  “No.  No! No-no-no!” she cried.  Tears filled her eyes; tears filled the killer’s eyes.  It was as if Maggie was looking in to a mirror.