The Sleeping Cab

By Daniel Koehler

THE ATONEMENT KILLER IS MURDERING YOUNG WOMEN across Interstate 40, and all the FBI has is a tenuous profile—a religious zealot bent on ritualistic sacrifice.

However, when a small town female cop, JOLENE DYKES, crosses paths with the killer, the FBI at last has an eyewitness. However, Jolene has no faith in the FBI and decides to stalk the killer across the interstates—alone and pregnant—to administer her own version of atonement.
PRAISE FOR "THE SLEEPING CAB"

"A well-written, gritty book--and after you read it, you may wake up screaming when an eighteen-wheeler roars past."

DUSTY RICHARDS, TWO-TIME SPUR AWARD WINNING WESTERN AUTHOR of "Comanche Moon" and "The Horse-Creek Incident."
"Jolene is a modern-day, neurotic version of "True Grit's" Mattie Ross"

ROBERT GINNAVEN, FEATURE FILM ACTOR of "Steel Magnolias," "White Lightning," "One False Move," "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas," "End of the Line," and "The Great Lester Boggs," among others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Koehler
• Release date: Aug 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452357355

Daniel Koehler

Daniel Koehler is the author of four novels, "Flyover Country" (2004), "The Sleeping Cab" (2006), "Unbankerly Behavior" (2008), and "Splitting Washington" (2010). His short pieces have appeared in The Best of Tales From the South, The Birmingham Arts Journal, New Works Review, BareBack Magazine, Inner Sins, The Rusty Nail, The Storyteller, The Harvard Bulletin, among others. Literary honors include finalist status in three international screenplay competitions and regional awards for his short stories.Prior to his writing career, he pursued professional interests in New York City. He has written software used extensively in the financial sector. He attended Leopold-Franzens Universität in Innsbruck, Austria, and is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame and Harvard.

Book preview

PART I: VALENTINE’S DAY IS OVER

Chapter 1

You want some company, Daddy?

The grey-haired man stared at the young blond woman in the low-cut tank top. Beg pardon?

You heard me just fine.

Well, I-I might. He slammed the door of his F-150.

Come over here, Daddy. Winking, she thrust a finger in and out of the tunnel she made with her other hand.

The man looked around for signs of a setup.

She slouched against the truck’s front fender, arching her back so the outline of her nipples and areolae stood out plainly against the thin jersey.

His boots scuffed the pavement, but he did not move toward her.

For God’s sake! I won’t bite.

Well, all right, then. He approached her with halting steps like an animal wary of an inviting treat.

I can be real good company. Real good.

I bet you can.

Probably a farmer, she decided. His jeans, plaid shirt, and mud-caked, steel-toed boots gave him away. She moved closer, noticing the contrast of his lined, sunburned face with the pale skin below his collar.

His eyes peered down her blouse.

You want to play with my rosebud?

It’s purty, he said, eyeing the small tattoo on her cleavage.

She pressed her groin against his trouser leg.

But I reckon I better not. He eyed the perimeter of the truck stop and then whispered, There might be people around I go to church with.

On tiptoes, she breathed into his ear. You know you want to.

Leave me be, woman. He pushed away and stormed into the Big Orange.

She shrugged. See you in church then, honey.

After three days on the road, and thanks to the truckers she had befriended, Melissa had plenty of cash in her pocket.

Money, however, was not what worried her.

Yesterday’s tina had worn off and left in its place the nasty edginess she knew too well. Could she score any serious dope out here in the boonies of Tennessee? She needed to get high.

At a truck stop, her chances were good.

Last night, a middle-aged trucker laid some reds on her and then took out his payment in trade. Consequently, as they traversed westward along I-40, Melissa spent much of that time on her knees in darkness illuminated only by the glow of the dashboard, her head wedged between the oversized steering wheel and his oversized belly.

From a distance, she presented an attractive silhouette, but as one drew closer, the hard contours of her face, her heavy make-up, and the mane of grotesquely dyed blonde hair made her look like what she actually was.

The plush toy bunny she carried was a present for her baby daughter, but Melissa knew it could also serve as a useful prop. The appearance of being underage often enhanced her desirability in these inland ports of call.

Standing near the entrance of the Big Orange Truck Stop outside Nashville, she lit up a fresh Virginia Slims and scanned the lot for her next ride. Clad in an orange tank top and yellowing white Capri pants, she blended into the truck stop’s color scheme like a chameleon, although lot lizard was what the truckers called her kind.

Hitchhiking from Baltimore to Little Rock, she intended to pay an unannounced visit to her ex-husband, now stationed at the Little Rock Air Force Base. The court had awarded him custody of their baby girl, and she had not seen the child since it was born, premature and heroin-addicted, two years ago, three days before her nineteenth birthday. It took the Air Force pediatricians nine months and decreasing minute doses of methadone to wean the underweight baby off the narcotic.

She saw a tall, severe-looking, dark-haired man in a red Peterbilt descend the four-foot drop from his cab to the asphalt. Sure doesn’t look like a trucker, she thought. Looks more like a preacher. How many truckers wear a white shirt and tie on the road?

All the better. Clergymen were clean and never haggled over the fee.

You want some company, baby? she asked as her eyes met his.

* * *

Climbing down from his idling rig, Narvel Lafferty ignored the harlot.

The dark circles under her eyes told him the woman could be a candidate for his mission, but his immediate problem was not so much saving her soul as saving his bladder.

His plan was a quick bathroom break, a wash, and then back on the road. You need to put some serious miles on the rig today, he told himself. At least make it to Little Rock by tonight.

Shaving kit dangling from his finger, he walked toward the main entrance of the Big Orange. The auxiliary fuel tank was still full, so he did not need to gas up, which would cost valuable time. Besides, diesel usually got cheaper the farther south you went.

Narvel enjoyed his stopovers at The Big Orange, a franchise truck stop boasting a fast food court, a convenience store, a trucker’s lounge with television, internet, and showers, eight diesel pumps, and an overnight parking bay for up to eighty big rigs.

Whenever he overnighted here, Narvel took advantage of the special parking berths that offered air-conditioning, cable television, and broadband internet connections via flexible ductwork. Although he never used the internet and rarely the cable TV, the air conditioning allowed him to shut down his engine and save fuel, which more than offset the cost of the berth.

Best of all, the Big Orange boasted scrupulously clean restrooms. He tried to practice good hygiene while on the road and, after eleven years driving cross-country, he was well aware how foul the cab of a big rig could become in the course of a two-week haul.

His pace quickened as he entered the truck stop. He had been holding it for the last sixty miles and refused to employ plastic jugs for relief.

Narvel pushed open the men’s room door and a pleasant citrus scent flooded his nasal passages. An array of grunting, overweight men occupied the urinals but, fortunately, he spotted a free toilet stall. The vulgarities on the stall walls disgusted him—rude pornographic images, doggerel poetry, ethnic slurs, and obscene graffiti not yet painted-over by management. Closing the laminated plywood door, he yielded to the blessed relief.

Exiting, he dropped to one knee in the now empty restroom and prayed aloud: Heavenly Father, deliver us from these sinful Gentiles who debase the Temples of their bodies with intemperate desires. Help us rid the world of their sinfulness, if only for the sake of our souls.

At the washstand, he extracted liquid soap from the dispenser and lathered his face and hands, performing each task twice before drying off. He then opened his shaving kit and rummaged through the zippered, leather bag. After pulling out a tube of toothpaste, a large sheathed hunting knife with an ornamental handle, a boar’s hair brush, and a stack of religious pamphlets, he finally found his Armée Suisse.

Twisting off the silver top, he doused himself with the cologne and then spent a minute combing his thick, dark hair with the boar’s hair brush. As he swept the stiff bristles across his scalp, his forearm revealed an unusual bit of body art: a warrior-angel strangling a snake. The tattooed snake seemed to wriggle in animated combat with each flex of his arm muscles but seemed out of place for someone so conservatively attired.

He placed religious pamphlets of a crucifixion scene in all the stalls. A barely-legible legend, Atonement, stood inscribed at the foot of the cross.

Repacking his shaving kit, he strode out of the men’s room and walked back to his rig. He saw the harlot leaning against his Peterbilt, scratching the skin of her inner arm red.

Were you thinking about me in there, baby? She cut her eyes sideways at him and smirked. "While you were—you know?—handling your business and whatnot."

He eyed her severely. "You just might need to read this." He handed her a pamphlet and noticed a rash of small, purple sores dotting the crook of her arm as she took it..

She narrowed her eyes. You ain’t gonna try to convert me, are you, baby?

Listen, Missie, I’ve helped a lot of people like you over the years. His voice broke a bit. But I can only help you save your soul if you get serious about it.

Melissa laughed the husky, congested laugh of a smoker. "You know, a lot of guys say that, but all they really want to do is fuck me."

Narvel reddened and his brow creased. Why don’t you stop this life you’re living? he said, the intensity of his voice rising. I mean, you’re still a young girl. You shouldn’t be getting high and selling yourself to men.

Well, then, she said, renewing her arm-scratching. How about a swap?

What kind of swap?

I swap you a blow job for twenty dollars and a ride?

Narvel gritted his teeth. She gave him a sly smirk and rubbed his leg.

He began to sweat. Wavering between indecision and lust, he exhaled heavily and cocked his head in the direction of the Peterbilt. Get in.

She strutted towards the cab, clambering up the high steps like the agile little monkey she was.

When they were both inside, he leaned towards her, a twenty extended between his fingertips. Just as she reached for it, he yanked the cash back. You promise to hear me out?

Sure, honey, she said, pouting. I mean, it don’t cost me nothin’ to let you run your mouth.

All right then. You do that and I can take you as far as Little Rock.

Deal, she said, puckering her lips and kissing the air. "But I can take you all the way, baby."

She snatched the twenty.

Narvel studied her as she leaned back in her seat and canted her pelvis upward to stuff the bill in her front pants pocket. Through the thin white cloth of her Capris, he could not help but notice the dark, unmistakable outline of the Delta of Venus.

* * *

Melissa’s head kept bobbing as the Peterbilt plowed westward along Interstate 40. Not a fellatio bob. A sleep-will-be-here-soon bob.

She had taken one of the reds.

You need to rest, Narvel said. Go ahead and lay down in the sleeping cab.

Her head snapped up and she eyed him groggily. You got any tina?

What?

You know? Ice. Crystal. Crank.

What do I look like—a drug dealer? Listen, the last thing you need is more of that poison, woman. He glanced at his Timex. Oh, great! Now we won’t make Little Rock ‘til sundown because of—

Because of the little party we had at the rest stop? She frowned. Well, don’t blame me if you’re behind schedule, Reverend. You got a lot more than your money’s worth back there. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Mr. Stubby.

What are you talking about?

She chuckled. "The weasel in your pants, Padre."

Shut your damn…. He caught himself and took a deep breath. Why don’t you just be quiet?

Melissa ignored him, extending her arms straight up and yawning. You know, now that you mention it, I believe I just might stretch out back there after all. Grab me a little nap.

Read this, Narvel said, shoving another church pamphlet into her hand. It’ll give you something to think about. Might even bring you some peace of mind. Help you sleep.

Jesus don’t pay my bills, hon.

Don’t you understand? You can’t be saved unless you hear God’s word.

Melissa knelt behind the driver’s seat and put her lips to his ear. I think you need a break, baby. You’re getting a little testy about this salvation business. She ran her fingers through his hair and inhaled deeply. Damn, you smell good. I tell you what—why don’t you pull over and come back here with me? Give me something of yours to help me sleep. Something I don’t have to read.

Don’t be dragging me back into your den of iniquity, woman. I got to put some serious miles on this rig.

Suit yourself. She sniffed and slumped back on the sleeping cab mattress. But it ain’t every day I throw a trucker a freebee.

She idly twirled a lock of oxidized, overbleached hair around her finger and gazed up at the hand-drawn pictures Narvel had taped to the walls of the sleeping compartment. Kneeling on the bunk, she studied the art more closely.

Snakes with exposed fangs.

Heroic angels wielding broadswords.

Screaming martyrs burning at the stake.

Playboy foldouts with crosses drawn on their privates.

Who decorated your truck, baby? Marilyn Manson?

When he did not respond, she threw the pamphlet on the floor and curled up in the bunk, hugging the plush bunny.

* * *

Two hours later, Narvel watched dusk descend on the Delta farmland of eastern Arkansas. Repair work along Interstate 40 slowed traffic to a crawl so, at the first exit, he pulled off the interstate onto a two-lane blacktop road.

Arkansas State Highway 17 zigzagged its way between the plots of prime farmland as though an Etch-a-Sketch had drawn it on the map, with long, straight stretches abruptly swinging ninety-degrees to bypass another parcel of farm acreage.

Soon, however, he knew the detour was a bad idea. Hell, he thought, with all these right-angle turns, I’m tacking two miles for every one mile I travel westward. I’ll never make up any time this way.

He decided just to wait out the traffic.

Melissa was still asleep in the rear cab, so he would use the downtime to talk to her about the state of her soul. He pulled the rig down a gravel road flanked by a windbreak of hardwood trees. Killing the headlights, he climbed back into the sleeping cab.

Narvel stroked her warm cheek lightly and she roused, stretching and yawning.

So…looks like you decided to take me up on that freebee, huh? She wiped the sleep out of her eyes with the back of the hand that still clutched the toy bunny. A penumbra of mascara ringed her sunken eyes.

Look, come out West with me. You can live with my wives and me. Get your life together.

She scowled. Your wives? You runnin’ a harem out there, baby? How many you got?

Eight, but you’ll be a sister first. Don’t worry, I’ll provide for you. Eventually, you can become a wife.

Melissa’s eyes burned. "You are tryin’ to convert me."

No, wait, he blurted, his eyes imploring. Let us save your soul.

No, you wait. I mean, Christ, I give you a highway blowjob, and now you want to marry me? Goddamn, you’re a weird son-of-a-bitch.

Don’t blaspheme, he said, his voice toneless.

Well, I hate to break it to you this way, Slick, she said, petting the plush bunny, but for a guy with eight wives, you sure ain’t packing much heat down there. Hahaha.

Narvel clenched his jaw, his face reddening. He rose slowly from the bed, turning his back as if to repel her raucous laughter.

No offense, honey, but Mr. Stubby just ain’t that big.

Narvel gazed at his feet, his lips taut and his back toward her. Slowly, he opened his shaving kit and deftly unsheathed the nine-inch knife inside, careful not to reveal it to her. He studied the ornately engraved inscription, Sword of God, that ran the length of the thick blade above the blood groove.

You remember your Bible stories? he asked in an almost cheerful tone of voice, stroking the hard, shiny edge of the ceremonial dagger with the thick of his thumb. Isaac and Abraham? What God told him to do?

Look, I’m sorry, baby, Melissa said, her eyes flashing alarm. I didn’t mean to say that. Wait. I-I...

Narvel spun around, knife in hand.

Her screams pelted him. "Oh, my God, no. No!"

If God is testing me, may He send His angel to stay my hand.

As he spoke the words of the ritual, Narvel felt oddly detached, as though he were not part of the scene but rather observing it from above. He felt suspended from the ceiling of the sleeping cab, seeing himself grab the whore by her hair, watching the terror flicker across her eyes as he raised the Sword of God to its apex but feeling nothing other than the resolve to complete the task.

Melissa shrieked and threw both hands in front of her face, one incongruously holding the toy bunny, but he stabbed through them with wild abandon. Over and over the heavy blade fell, gashing the soft flesh of her neck, her breasts, her abdomen.

A rain of blood sprayed the sleeping cab. She sagged then fell backwards on the bed.

Narvel moved slowly toward her.

She struggled to prop herself up on one elbow, the other hand held out to fend him off. Her trembling lips whispered please as though she believed he would still spare her this far along.

He pushed her back down so hard she bounced off the mattress. Falling upon her, Narvel stabbed the Sword of God with ease through the horny cage of her sternum. Blood erupted in Narvel’s face when the blade pierced her heart.

Melissa’s face went slack, pupils dilated to full stop. Dead black circles. Her hand unclenched and the plush bunny fell to the floor.

Narvel stared out at the dark fields surrounding the truck, fearful of witnesses. Only the looming night sky peered back at him through the bug-spattered windshield.

He wiped the blood from his face and stripped her, tossing her sticky, sodden garments in a pile on the floor. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and tried to decide which part of her body he would submit as proof he saved her soul.

Something flat for the mission diary would be best.

Retrieving a scalpel from his tool drawer, he traced her eyelid with the keen edge of the instrument. There was hardly any blood with eyelids and they were more compact than, say, nipples or labia.

Uncle Leron recommended the labia in cases of atonements involving whores, harking back to the biblical prescription: If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. Narvel, however, felt eyelids better fulfilled the literal sense of the scriptural passage.

Melissa’s other heavily made-up eye now contrasted sharply with the lidless one, calling to mind the Droogies from A Clockwork Orange, who mascaraed a single eye.

Narvel dropped the wrinkled flesh in a plastic baggie for later. It looked to him like a lopsided caterpillar.

Again, he peered through the windshield, wary of unseen bystanders who might observe him when he dumped her body.

Teenagers making out in a parked car.

Someone walking the dog.

A stranded motorist.

He saw nothing. Cold, silver moonlight illuminated the mute expanse of row crops, and a thousand rasping crickets filled the air with static. Still, to be safe, he drew the privacy curtain of the sleeping cab before beginning his work behind it.

Rolling her over onto her stomach, he wrote Atonement across her freckled back with his fingertip, dipping it several times in her pooled blood, which gave off a familiar copper-metallic scent.

He wrapped her body in the bed sheet like an impromptu mummy and swept up her dead weight over his shoulder to allow him to exit the cab more easily. In the darkness, he staggered under his load to the edge of the windbreak, where he discovered a dry drainage ditch.

Narvel shook the bed sheet and what had been Melissa flopped out. It rolled down the weed-choked bank, coming to rest in the damp, sandy loam. She landed on her back, her mismatched eyes staring heavenward.

He tossed the bed sheet, still tacky with her blood, onto the bank of the ditch and clambered down the slope. Still wearing his blood-smeared, yellow rubber gloves, he spread his arms wide in prayer.

Heavenly Father, the grievous sacrileges this sinner has committed have now been atoned for with her own blood. May You, O Father, in Your wisdom and mercy, accept her sacrifice as physical testimony of her fervent desire to dwell in Your great Kingdom for all Eternity.

Narvel paused and pulled an ornate golden vial from his pocket, sprinkling her body with the fluid it contained. I baptize you in the name of the Heavenly Father and pray He accepts your cleansed soul into his Divine Kingdom. Amen.

Scrambling up the bank of the ditch, he retrieved the bloody sheet and made his way back to the truck.

Inside, he retrieved a plastic tub of wet wipes from the cab’s utility compartment, along with cleanser and paper towels. Tearing a black garbage bag off the roll, he spread apart the plastic lips and stuffed in her tattered clothes and the soiled bed sheet.

Out of sight, out of mind.

His chest heaved and Narvel blew out a sharp breath. He wanted to believe the garbage bag were a mystical black hole that could somehow obliterate the bloody artifacts and nullify the act that befouled them.

Remnants of the carnage, he noticed, still stained the sleeping cab. Excess blood had pooled on the plastic fitted-sheet covering the mattress. Turning it inside out to retain the gore, he wadded it up and tossed it in the black garbage bag. He gave the bed area a quick once-over with wet wipes and then applied spray cleanser to the clotted areas.

It took almost a full tub of wet wipes to clean all visible surfaces properly. The homey scent of baby oil from the wipes reminded him of Colorado City. His wives were always tending to a new baby in the compound, he thought, so maybe that was why the baby oil soothed him? However, he knew the scent only temporarily masked the odor of death lurking below its cloying sweetness.

Knotting the plastic bag, he threw it into a corner and dressed in fresh clothes. The hooker’s plush bunny peeked out at him from under the bed. Lifting the bed skirt to retrieve the toy, he saw the hilt of the Sword of God lying next to it.

He sheathed and stowed the ritual knife back in his shaving kit and picked up the bunny to inspect it. Finding it nearly pristine, he snatched the last wet towelette from the plastic tub and wiped away the drizzle of blood coating its plush face.

This’ll make a good present for my new baby girl, he thought. He tried to remember the name of his youngest. Elizabeth, was it? Or Ruth?

Narvel fed the engine more gas and slammed the semi into first gear. The truck vibrated as it threw off inertia and lurched forward.

He decided to keep the headlights off, not wanting to advertise his departure to any locals in the vicinity. His night vision was already established, but in the shallow ditch where Melissa lay, her inert pupils took in the same starlight to no earthly avail.

Chapter 2

The policewoman eyed the elderly man seated beside her.

Please put your magazine here, sir. She pointed to a space on the coffee table. When you’re finished with it, of course.

The septuagenarian cast a befuddled glance at her. He shrugged and continued reading the vintage Time magazine that warned of the horrors of Y2K.

Clad in her impeccably pressed uniform, Jolene Dykes paused to brush back a frond of silky, dark hair from her forehead. Then she resumed the task that obsessed her: rearranging the coffee table magazines in her psychiatrist’s office in chronological order.

The pharmaceutical salesman across the aisle, she noticed, was staring at her again.

The salesman had ample reason to admire the tall, svelte young woman. At twenty-six, Jolene was exceptionally attractive—fit, toned and trim, with cornflower-blue eyes, a perfectly chiseled nose, and flawless alabaster skin that contrasted splendidly with her aubergine hair, which she wore blunt cut in bangs.

The doctor will see you now, Ms. Dykes, the receptionist called out.

Jolene rose and smoothed the wrinkles from her dark blue North Little Rock Police Department uniform, her holster belt bulging with law enforcement paraphernalia.

Again, she eyed the elderly man.

He nervously put the magazine where she suggested.

Thank you, sir. She gave him a dazzling smile.

In the empty doctor’s office, Jolene reclined on the black leather-and-chrome Barcelona couch. Noticing tiny particles of lint and crumbs on its surface, she licked her finger and pressed it down on the leather until the debris adhered to it.

She rose and availed herself of the nearby sink, rinsing off the crumbs and then liberally dousing her hands with antibacterial soap and scrubbing them raw.

Ah, Ms. Dykes, let me join you.

Doctor Geoffrey Snow ambled up to the sink beside her and laved his hands briefly under the stream of water. An athletic man of forty, he wore a rumpled suit and an askew wool challis necktie that hung from a button-down collar two sizes too large.

Now, tell the truth, he said, ripping a paper towel from the dispenser. How many times did you wash your hands waiting for me?

Only once, doctor, she protested. This couch is filthy. I was going to wipe it down for you, but you came in before I could.

Jolene, he said, fixing her with his gaze, have you been taking your Prozac?

She avoided his eyes.

You must understand that selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors like Prozac take awhile to kick in. If you don’t take it continuously, you have to start over to build it up in your system.

Doctor Snow shook his head, tuttered, and sat down in a nearby chair, reading from her medical file. Let’s see here. Hmmm?

Jolene noticed his lips tighten.

The CAT scan found a small mass at the base of your skull in the region of the hypothalamus, Ms. Dykes, but there’s probably nothing to worry about. They’re usually congenital and benign. But it’s imperative you avoid any activity where you could sustain a blow to the head.

Jolene regarded the physician’s professional nonchalance with suspicion. She wondered if he were downplaying a serious situation, sugarcoating it, perhaps.

Well, Doctor, I do teach a self-defense class at the Y, but I never get hit.

What about in the line of duty?

That’s something I have no control over.

The psychiatrist pondered her last remark. All the same, be careful. We can moderate your obsessive-compulsiveness with medication, but we need to keep an eye on this intracranial mass.

Jolene had been focusing on the doctor’s askew necktie as he spoke to her. She could no longer control her impulse and reached to straighten the lopsided, paisley cravat.

Ms. Dykes, please.

* * *

That evening, Jolene stood before a motley group of women in workout clothes at the YWCA.

Fight back, she urged. If you act cocky and don’t cave in, chances are you’ll spook him and he’ll run away. A rapist is basically a coward, someone who builds up his ego by controlling and humiliating women.

Officer Dykes, that’s all well and good, said a middle-aged woman clad in a pink DKNY sweatsuit, single-strand pearl necklace, and flawless make-up. My problem is I just don’t know how to ‘act cocky.’

I hope not, Shirley, a woman beside her quipped. For Marv’s sake.

Titters erupted from the group.

Shirley’s perfect makeup could not conceal the natural blush that flooded her cheeks. No, I mean, really and truly, I just don’t know how to fight back.

Another woman piped up. Me neither.

Well, that’s not unusual for Southern Belles like us, is it? Jolene said, coaxing a laugh from the group.

She picked up an anatomically incorrect canvas dummy the group had nicknamed Harold after one of their ex-husbands. Let’s pretend Harold here is attacking you, okay? First, go for his eyes. Use your long fingernails to rake across his face.

She demonstrated the move, her nails whipping across Harold’s canvas head with a raspy scrape.

Yeah, you go, girl, an African-American woman cried.

See? I mean, really dig them in. Then give him a good one to the head.

Jolene’s elbow slammed violently into Harold’s textile temple. Like that.

A cloud of Oo-oo-oo’s rose from the group as they observed the crippling thump Jolene gave Harold.

Best of all, kick him in the ba...the groin, Jolene urged.

She reddened from her verbal slip-up regarding Harold’s nonexistent genitals. Regaining her composure, she smiled and then kicked the dummy a withering blow between his legs.

Even better, Shirley said, pull a Lorena Bobbit on him.

Who’s Lorena Bobbit? another woman