Danger Wears Pantyhose
By Mizeta Moon
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Danger Wears Pantyhose - Mizeta Moon
Copyright © 2018 by Redwood La Chapel
ISBN: 9781543958041
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by SpearPoint Publications, Portland, OR
2018
Cover created by Zap Graphics, Portland, Oregon
Table of Contents
Foreword
Naked Aggression
Disposal Service
Waking Up Dead
Close Shave
The Fairview Anomaly
In the Attic
Gifts Come in Many Forms
Carlotta
Discovery
Oops!
Junebug and Billy Bob
Attraction
A Leg Up
Simultaneous
Late Night Craving
Inn on the Wharf
Interviewing the Dying
Where Am I?
Gunfire Exchange
Cursed by Sudden Wealth
Seismic Retrofit
Stash
Pleasure
Resettlement
Career Change
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Hi there,
Lizette Fontaine first appeared in my novel Embracing Evil. She is an ex-Navy SEAL who was drummed out of the military for cross dressing. She subsequently migrated to Portland and opened a boutique catering to drag queens and cross dressers. In the novel, she was forced to deal with a series of bigots dedicated to harming her family and the entire Portland LGBT community. Her fighting and weaponry skills allowed her to prevail at great cost, which ran contrary to her desire for peace and genial personality. In Naked Aggression, the lead story of Danger Wears Pantyhose, she runs afoul of a biker gang that operates a meth lab and smuggling ring. The story is adult reading due to using foul language and violence to accurately represent the lifestyle and attitude of the bad guys. Some of you may find this not to your liking, so if you skip it, I won't be offended. A mixed bag of flash stories come next, covering many genres and subjects. The second longer story is entitled Junebug and Billy Bob, which is a spoof about moonshiners who become blackmailers due to a random event. After another group of flash stories, the final story, Career Change, is my first attempt to meld real science with humorous fiction.
Thank you for your continued support and I hope you enjoy these stories.
Love, Mizeta
Naked Aggression
Part One
Chapter 1
Lizette Fontaine stepped from the blistering heat of an Arizona afternoon into a bar that was only slightly cooler than outside. The creak of a drive belt and sucking pump sounds of an ancient swamp cooler perched on the roof of a rundown stucco and block building promised relief but failed to deliver. A badly-chipped wooden door, once painted bright red, sported a faded plastic sign that said, WELCOME TRAVELER. Lizette assumed those were sentiments of the original owner. It was obvious that no one had cared about the comforts of guests for quite some time. When she walked through it, she saw a sample of the whole town, which looked seedy, as if it were slowly being reclaimed by the desert. The bar was called The Oasis but seemed more like a train station on the express line to Hell.
Her lightweight cotton dress was damp and clung to her body as she paused in the entryway to catch her breath. This discomfort was nothing compared to the bitter disappointment she felt from having to enter such a place. Violence and her lifestyle seemed to proceed in lockstep, no matter how she tried to avoid it. Lizette was determined to live life as she chose, and that was often a problem for narrow minds to accept.
As she moved into a semi-dark room rank with the stench of stale beer and sweat, she watched attentively while the actions of the bar’s patrons became a stop-motion dance filled with startled looks. It reminded her of an old-time movie, with glitches and stutters interrupting its flow. Their initial reactions were a combination of amusement, surprise, and amazement. Their eyes clearly showed hostility, and there was no doubt in her mind that every one of them would be happy to cause her pain. Walking out alive was going to be a lot harder than walking in had been.
Looking around, she saw that the bar was more of a clubhouse for its current occupants rather than an establishment frequented by the public. The place wasn’t just a dive, it was a dump. Several threadbare pool tables stood crookedly on a planked wood floor littered with cigarette butts, peanut shells, and other detritus. Her entrance interrupted games in progress, and the players leaned on their sticks, watching and waiting. The sticks could easily become weapons.
At double-occupancy tables, spaced along nicotine-stained walls, sat a variety of women who were watching their counterparts to see which of their men would put down the intruder. In their hardened, drug-sculpted faces, Lizette could see a desire to watch violence erupt and to be aroused by the sight of blood and suffering. She’d seen this look before. Jackals waiting to close in after lions ate their share.
An oddly clean and new-looking digital jukebox was finishing up a tune by a man who would have never dreamed that his loving words and feelings would float through an atmosphere laden with such malevolence. This scene was familiar to Lizette. Different times, different parts of the world, where the enemy had different colored skin and customs. She’d survived such encounters and planned to again. Her opponents’ bravado was their weakness, and their arrogance would be their undoing.
The music stopped. Lizette’s stiletto heels echoed across the wood planks while dried shells crackled under her tread. The air was deathly still. An entire group of people held their collective breaths and tilted their bodies towards the soon-to-be center of action. They looked as if they were holding back a strong wind blowing in their faces.
Ahead of her, casually propped against a grimy vinyl-padded bar covered with burns and water rings, three over-aged bikers sipped their beers and awaited her arrival with naked enthusiasm. The biggest one wore faded, greasy leathers bearing an assortment of motorcycle-related patches, along with de-rigueur black boots whose heels were shabby and worn. A wide chain belt barely contained a bloated gut, but his arms were beefy, and spoke of a grappler instead of a boxer. Lizette was hoping that his lifestyle had left him short on stamina. His long, dirty hair was streaked with gray, and a bushy beard hid most of what was by no means a pretty face.
To his right stood a generic outlaw. He was big but had the look of a stooge who acted on others’ commands. He’d be the one who would rape a defenseless woman in a heartbeat. Inevitably, he would also be the one who would run out on his buddies to save his own life when the chips were down. No loyalty, only a ceaseless hunger for violence that nothing could contain. A mad dog on a short and easily broken chain. Lizette had served with a few like him—killers who enjoyed inflicting pain instead of fighting for a cause. Most of them were now buried in foreign lands. None by her hand, slain instead by people they underestimated or ignored.
To Lizette, the third man was the most dangerous. A skinny meth-head with a ravaged face and bony arms covered with tattoos of writhing snakes. Like field operations where every second counted, Lizette assessed him quickly and easily.
He would strike from cover or behind and feel no shame at his cowardice. His amorality was blatantly obvious in every aspect of his demeanor. He would happily pick the pockets of the dead and defile them should an opportunity present itself. Drugs had become his lover, having replaced the inner man with a vacuum consuming everything in its path.
As she moved towards the admittedly imposing group, the barkeep, a gangly baldheaded man of about sixty, oozed down the mats to get out of the immediate danger zone. He grabbed a rag and busied himself with cleaning the same spot over and over, eyes gleaming at the prospect of violence. It wasn’t every day he got to watch some fag tourist get torn to pieces.
Lizette stopped about ten feet from the big one and planted her left hip against the bar. She hoped the accumulated filth of years wouldn’t ruin her dress. She did this because she wanted to vault onto, or over the bar, should it become necessary to do so. Otherwise, she’d have preferred to remain in the middle of the room in order to have more flight options. In this situation, too many people could surround her, so having cover was important.
She knew it would be useless posturing to order a drink, even though she was dying of thirst. Going to the bathroom would be nice, instead of peeing behind a bush as she’d been forced to do earlier, but hospitality was not forthcoming. So, cutting to the bone was her only option. Shrugging her shoulders, and issuing a sigh, she said, I need the keys to that car parked outside,
to the big one she assumed was the leader.
Fuck you,
came from a slit in the beard that revealed blackened teeth and liver-colored lips.
The three bikers shifted into battle postures and watched Lizette with intense interest. It wasn’t common to have some dude in a dress show up in their dusty little crossroads town. Not to mention one with the balls to ask payment for damages done. If he hadn’t been some pervert homo, they’d have probably made him an honorary club member for showing a complete lack of fear. It was obvious they were facing one cool customer who wasn’t worried about them at all. It would have been spooky, and a source of concern were they to think it through. But with this crew, action came first.
You burned up my ride and now I want yours. What part don’t you understand?
Lizette stated calmly.
She had been purchasing gas when the biker crew pulled in beside her and things got out of hand. At first, they thought she was a woman traveling alone, and she could only imagine what evils would have come to pass were that the case. Standing up to them revealed her maleness and set the next series of events in motion. While one group harassed her and focused her attention on them, another torched her car by sticking one road emergency flare in the neck of her gas tank and another in the passenger seat. Filled with anger she rarely felt, Lizette stood on the tarmac clutching her purse, and thought about brandishing the weapon inside it, but realized the odds were bad and the setting not conducive to a firefight. It would have to be her last resort. For what seemed like an hour, bikers roared around her in exhaust-filled bursts, called her names and laughed, but no one fired on her. She held her ground stoically while the car continued to go up in flames. She was thankful it hadn’t exploded.
Suddenly, as if a silent signal had been activated, the bikers lost interest in her. She would never know why but was happy to be unscathed when they roared away, gunning their engines, doing wheelies, and burning rubber. They left her there, pissed off and on foot, at a lonely intersection of two lightly traveled roads. During the skirmish, the gas station attendant locked all the doors and hung up a CLOSED sign. No help was available for the foreseeable future, and if there was a beaten path, she was certainly off of it. She liked driving in heels but was not thrilled about wearing them while walking nearly two miles into the center of town. Nothing on that long, torturous trek had done a thing to lighten her mood. She would have taken her shoes off but had seen the results of hot asphalt on the bare feet of soldiers unhappy with their boots
That was then, and this was now. Her senses were on full alert and the enemy was in sight. Her life was on the line. Why she was even there was a good question for which she had no honest answer. Taking the law into one’s own hands could have serious ramifications, but she’d felt the need to stubbornly persist. Sometimes we get crazy, she thought, and this seemed to be her moment.
Cute dress … It’ll look good on you at the funeral. I bet that ass of yours could handle a telephone pole,
the beard slit spit out humorously.
The whole room chuckled, and many exchanged high-fives.
Lizette said nothing. Instead, she held out her hand and waggled her beautifully lacquered fingernails impatiently. Never once did her eyes drift from the three men. Her keen peripheral vision assured her that no other threat existed at that moment, which was a comfort. The crowd was transfixed. Their leader was being barked at by a sissy. How he handled it would determine his lore and legend.
Meth-head spoke next.
We own this town. If you think you can jack our shit and live to tell about it, you’re stupider than you look in them high heels.
The middle goon thought this was hilarious, and nearly choked on his brew. Tendrils of foam and snot spewed from his huge oily nose. He wiped it on the sleeve of a filthy denim jacket, then awaited the next volley like a drooling idiot.
When she was claiming her space at the slimy bar, Lizette had made sure to set her oversized Christian Dior purse where she would have easy access to its contents. Opening the snap, she reached inside with a swift motion. Throughout the room, bodies tensed, hands went into pockets and fingers slid into bras. She could see that the three men at the bar were poised and ready for action.
Lizette smiled.
Producing a lipstick, she ran it across her lips slowly and sensuously, purposely goading their hatred. Keeping the bikers angry was the key to her successful escape. Glancing at a grimy mirror behind the bar afterwards, she nodded with satisfaction, then turned full face to her adversaries.
At five-foot-ten and weighing one-sixty, she did not appear to be a match for the trio. Unknown to them, she was fit, highly trained in combat, and deadly. Despite the situation, her blue eyes remained filled with irrepressible humor, even though the stakes were of the highest order. In keeping with her fashion, she wore a different wig every day over closely shorn brown hair. Her real hair could have been long and feminine, but wigs provided continuously new looks and she liked change. Today, her wig was cascading waves of copper, and unfortunately, her dress was white. Fingering a smudge on it with distaste, she said, Obviously, gentlemen … and I say that out of pity, you do not understand that I want to continue my vacation and you have sorely inconvenienced me. I need wheels and don’t want one of your choppers, or I would already have stolen one and been long gone. Your misplaced sense of security leaves a big margin for error. That said, I know the car belongs to someone in this room. Now give me the keys!
Her left hand still rested by the opening of her purse but appeared relaxed and no threat to produce a weapon.
The big one said, Blow me in front of everybody and we’ll let you walk to the next town with nobody pestering you. It’s only twenty-five miles, with no water, and not a tree in sight. Otherwise, you die here today and nobody but us will ever know. And did I mention that we don’t give a damn if somebody does come asking? Even the cops don’t patrol within ten miles of this place. You’re all alone, chickadee. Now, come give Papa some love.
Lizette smiled wistfully before speaking.
Man! Why does everyone assume I’m gay? Even if I wanted to do you …which I don’t, I probably couldn’t find it under all that flab. When did you see it last? Are you sure it’s still there?
Before anything else could be said, the middle goon threw his empty glass at Lizette and charged like a rhino through underbrush. So much for waiting on orders.
Lizette barely moved. What she did with her fingers left the overconfident bully floundering on the trash-strewn floor, gasping for air, twitching and rolling his eyes, experiencing excruciating pain. It was something she’d learned as a beginner in boot camp, a simple, highly effective maneuver. A grossly overweight woman with peroxide blonde hair rushed to aid her fallen warrior. Lizette was disgusted to observe that by kneeling, the woman’s tattered thong became exposed along with a poorly-executed tramp-stamp tattoo. To Lizette, it resembled an egg dropped on hot concrete. A complete waste of ink.
Ignoring the lovers, Lizette looked at Big Boy with sadness in her eyes. She had only wanted some gas and maybe a cold soda for the next leg of her journey. To pee, fix her face, and take a moment to stretch her legs before rolling on. Her voice was beseeching but filled with steely resolve.
How many times do I have to ask? I came here alone to keep this between us instead of calling the cops. I’m hoping you’ll square up and no one has to get hurt. Your buddy here will be fine in about an hour. If he’s all you’ve got, then you’re in worse shape than I thought, so why don’t you make it easy and let me leave your car at the airport in Phoenix? I file a claim with my insurance company and go home. You go on about your business. What do you say?
Instead of reacting spontaneously to her treatment of his minion (which she’d hoped if violence was called for), the fat biker seemed committed to the idea of someone dying, but not in a hurry to act. After all, there were thirty-five of them and one dude in a dress. His eyes took on a thoughtful, wary look as he reassessed the threat level she represented. Like Lizette, he’d obviously seen death before and considered it a consequence of playing life’s game. Sometimes you won, but someone always had to lose, and it really sucked if it was you. After a pregnant pause, where a few murmurs and ice tinkling in glasses filled the background, Lizette watched as the man reached behind the bar and secured a set of keys attached to a ring that featured a dangling skeleton. They were the pathway to her escaping alive. Maybe he would turn out to be a reasonable person after all, she thought. Maybe nothing bad had to happen. Those thoughts were immediately shattered by his next declaration. Dangling them aloft, and jingling them like Christmas bells, the biker snarled challengingly, Come get ‘em, sweetpea.
Chapter 2
The next series of events occurred so quickly that Lizette couldn’t spare the time to think. She acted, using techniques and skills honed for years by institutions and situations she would have preferred to forget if the world would allow her to do so.
Looking over Big Boy’s shoulder, she saw the barkeep reach for a shotgun lying near a row of liquor bottles on the back bar. It was obvious that he planned to use it.
She beat him to the punch.
Flipping her Army issue Colt .45 automatic out of her purse with her left hand, she released the safety and swiftly punched the man’s ticket to the dark side. Her insistence at keeping a round chambered had once again served her well. Normally, she would have wounded the man, but could not take the chance he would get off a deadly blast of whatever shot the rifle contained. Even a slight injury could allow her to be swallowed by the mob. Her need to survive outweighed any moral consideration, even though she deeply regretted such a solution. In her experience, violent people only responded to even greater violence.
Reaching under her dress, Lizette pulled her Commando knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh. Swapping weapons to opposite hands, she braced for the onslaught of Meth-head, who ran at her brandishing a chain belt similar to the leader’s. Instead of completely closing the gap between them, the biker twirled it around his head twice and let fly.
Ducking the spinning strip of metal, Lizette shot Meth-head’s kneecap, then used a couple of precious seconds to slip off her shoes. By then, the shock of sudden death was wearing off and others from the room began to work their way towards her. Several guns appeared. She could hear hammers being cocked and clips being slammed home.
Before anyone could get off a shot, Lizette leapt onto the bar, ran full speed at Big Boy, and kicked him hard in the face with her recently bared heel. She heard the satisfying crunch of nose cartilage breaking. Though stunned, the man tried to grab her ankle, but she slashed the back of his hand, nearly severing tendons leading to his fingers. All three bikers were now crying out in pain. Big Boy dropped to his knees while Meth-head joined the man already on the floor.
One of the women at a table fired three rounds from a snub-nosed .38 that was only accurate from a short distance. The mirror behind Lizette shattered into thousands of shards. Deciding not to kill the woman, Lizette shot her in the shoulder and saw her gun drop to the floor, then spin away.
Big Boy was on his feet by then but was using his good hand to stem the flow of blood from the one Lizette sliced open. His nose bled freely without a third hand to tend it. He was easy to outmaneuver and slip behind when Lizette jumped down from the bar. She winced when her feet crushed a pile of shells but didn’t waver. Wishing she were wearing combat boots, she nonetheless wrapped an arm around Big Boy’s neck and shoved the nose of her still-warm .45 into the waistband of his pants. Her knife point rested just below his ear.
Tell them to back off or you lose your dick before I blow your brains out.
The others were cautious but had slowly moved to surround her.
Gasping for breath, the fat man replied with open hostility and loathing.
You’ll never make the door if you kill me. Go ahead and shoot. See what happens.
Despite his bravado, Lizette could hear fear in his voice. Emasculation would be a humiliation the man didn’t want aired in his eulogy. Instead of answering, she tightened her grip and slid the steel intruder deeper into the biker’s pants. The tip of her knife opened a hole at the top of his neck.
A few suspenseful seconds ticked by before he said, Okay, you win for now.
To show his compliance, Big Boy stopped the others’ advance by dropping his hands to his sides. Everyone stood still. Blood dripped onto the floor. Without attention soon, the biker was in danger of bleeding out. Lizette knew she could easily lose her shield if he suddenly shut down and became dead weight. She was happy that deep down, the man really didn’t want to die.
What now?
he asked.
Removing her gun from the man’s pants, Lizette put its barrel between