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Message-ID: <47371asstr$1081591804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 05 {Imagineer} (nosex viol exhib ScFi)
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Date: Sat, 10 Apr 2004 06:10:04 -0400
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Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 5: Blitzed


  Sapphire Blitzed

  Monday afternoon. Angela called Ricky from the fabric store - could
she pick up the computer tonight?
  "Sorry, it's not working yet. I forgot your hard drive was Disk
Mangled."
  "What?" That didn't sound good.
  "It was formatted with Disk Manager, a utility to make big hard
drives work with older systems. No big deal, but makes things more
complicated. Had to reload your system. Now I'm waiting on video card
drivers. The company went out of business; I've got someone on a board
getting back to me on pulling it from his archives."
  Angela swallowed hard. "Reloaded? What about passwords and shortcuts
and stuff?"
  "Relax. They're saved. I'll restore them once I get Windows back up,
but it'll take time. Another few days..."
  Well, what choice did she have? Scott would just have to wait. Next
time she created a chat account she'd write the password down.
  Ricky continued. "By the way, hear about Dirk?"
  "No..." Angela did her best to sound clueless.
  "He got beat up last night. Two cracked ribs. Probably gonna miss
football camp. Said a bunch of guys jumped him at the Quick Mart, said
they were Skyline alumni." Skyline was the other football powerhouse in
the district.
  "Wow," Angela faked surprise.
  "That's not what Jim said happened, though." There was an awkward
silence. Angela waited for Ricky to continue. "He said Dirk caught him
at the Quick Mart, and then this chick appeared out of nowhere and
kicked his ass and told him to 'leave Jim and Ricky alone.' Your friend
works fast."
  "Yeah," Angela replied, "she doesn't do anything halfway." Her free
hand reached down under the counter, checking for her purse. She'd
decided that morning that she should keep the gems with her all the
time, just in case.
  "So how'd you meet her?"
  "Internet."
  "Really? Where, exactly?"
  Dammit! Angela's mind raced. Why was Ricky pressing for details? Her
heart skipped a beat. Did he know it was her? "Ummm... in chat
somewhere, I don't remember. I meet a lot of people online, ya know.
You should try it."
  "Oh, well I'd like to meet her." Pause. "T-to thank her, of course."
  "Of course. Well, I can give you her address when I get my computer
back."
  "So how did you contact her?" Ricky asked.
  Whoops. "I called her, silly." Nice recovery.
  "Well, could I have her number?"
  He was persistent, wasn't he? "I'd have to ask her first. I don't
think she'd want me to. She likes her privacy. It was months before I
even knew she was from around here, and almost a year before we talked.
And I haven't even met her face-to-face. She's kinda weird about her
privacy, actually."
  "Jim says she's very pretty."
  "I wouldn't know. I just know she works out, and her dad's a boxer or
something. And she's always talking about her cheese or something."
  "Her chi?"
  "Yeah, that."
  "A martial artist, then."
  "I guess." Angela did her best to sound bored, hoping Ricky would
stop asking about her 'friend.' It sounded like he wasn't suspicious,
just... infatuated?
  "Well, I gotta get back to work, Ricky. Thanks for working so hard on
my computer, I'll pay you for it, okay?"
  She could practically hear him grin. "Just dinner. And your friend's
phone number."
  "Yeah, right, Ricky. Bye."

  Ricky hung up and put down his pencil. He looked at the oversize
sketch he'd started after talking with Jim in the morning. The ugly
overmuscled minotaur, falling backwards into the foreground, his bull's
head tilted back at an awkward angle, punch lines tracing from the
point of impact on his chin. The heroine floating in mid-air over him,
one impossibly-long leg extended before the minotaur's chin, sweep line
tracing the arc of the kick. Whoosh lines marked her incredible
twenty-yard attack leap, her descent articulated by her long flapping
cape. The heroine wore a tube top and tight miniskirt, windowpane
highlights indicating the liquid-smooth glossy texture. A halo of
straight black hair surrounded her face, a narrow band crossing her
forehead. He'd been working on the sketch through his conversation with
Angela, filling in the heroine's face.

  It was Angela's face.

  "Yeah, I wish," he smirked.



  "Empty the register!"

  The voice made the hairs on the back of Angela's neck stand up. She
put down the PowerBar and peeked over the row of cracker boxes toward
the register. A large army-green canvas coat, baggy black pants and Doc
Martens stood between her and Azmid, the man working the register.

  "This is the second time this month," Azmid complained. "Don't you
know this is supposed to be the quiet part of town?" He didn't seem
particularly afraid.

  The hot dog warmer went crashing to the floor. "Empty the register!"
the robber repeated. He stepped forward, leaning over the counter;
Angela could see by the reflection in the beer fridge glass door that
the invader's gun barrel was up Azmid's nose.

  "Okay, okay, no need to make a mess..." Azmid reached down gingerly,
kachinging open the cash drawer. "Would you like a bag? Here..." he
began emptying the register drawer by feel, unable to look down. This
made it take longer.

  Angela ducked down.

  Well, this sucked. She'd been carrying the gems and shoes around with
her lately, but hadn't thought as far as actually changing into a
costume "in the field." She couldn't exactly strip naked in the snack
aisle while someone held up the place. Besides, she didn't want Azmid
to figure out she was the one who stopped the robbery last month. (And
the way he looked at her gave her the creeps when she was fully
clothed; the thought of him seeing her in her underwear made her skin
crawl.) But she couldn't just let the crook get away with it...

  Without thinking things through, Angela slipped out of her sandals
and slipped on her Sapphire heels, then slipped on her Sapphire
wristbands. Her mind raced for an idea; she didn't have much time...
she heard the register slam closed. It was now or never. Angela slowly
stepped out of the aisle. She'd planned to let out a mock gasp to
announce her presence, but upon seeing the man there, his gun pointed
right at Azmid's head, her gasp was real. He was huge. And dirty. And
scary-looking. His eyes locked hers for an instant -- she felt his
crazed determination bore through her.

  She pointed at his foot. "Um, mister, y-y-your shoe's untied..." She
focused a force-blast. His foot slid sideways a bit, but the man barely
lost his balance. Her long-sleeve shirt reduced her power to a nudge.

  "What the fuck? You throwin' things at me?" He shot a quick angry
glance at her, but kept his gun in Azmid's face. "C'm'ere," he snarled.
Angela stood, frozen. "Now!" he shouted. She stepped toward him
tentatively, testing her power as she went; she couldn't levitate. In
fact, she couldn't really control the force at all; she stumbled
off-balance, leaning up against the rack of Car Traders. Damn, she
forgot the tiara.

  "Stop right there!" he barked. She froze, just three feet from him.
To Azmid: "You! Out from behind the counter. Face down on the floor!"
Azmid raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he quickly complied.

  The robber's eyes drew up her form slowly; she felt them like a
beast's tongue. "Hmm," he seemed to say, "sexy little shoes, tight legs
in tighter leggings -- nice ass -- curvy hips, smooth bare tummy, snug
long-sleeve baseball T cut off below a perfect pair of oranges,
jet-black hair, beautiful frightened eyes..." His eyes locked hers.

  "Take off your top." Angela jumped at the command, her hands
trembling as they reached haltingly for the bottom of the cropped tee.
"Now!" She peeled it off quickly and dropped it to the floor beside her.

  "Nice..." he leered. He noticed her wristbands with their dangling
sapphires. "What's with the jewelry?"

  "Th-they're just... glass," Angela stuttered. "They were my
grandmothers," she lied.

  "Give 'em here," he commanded. She stood unmoving. She couldn't give
up her gemstones. "Now!"

  "No," she said quietly.

  He raised his gun, pointing it at her head. Instinctively, she raised
her hands to protect her face. He closed the space between them,
reaching for her wrist with his free hand. The gems glowed; his arm was
deflected away from her. "What the... are you crazy?" he sputtered. The
nerve of this chick, pushing him away! He took another step, to one
side of her, and shoved her down. Unsteady on her high heels, Angela
collapsed to the linoleum, the wind knocked out of her.

  "Stupid bitch," she heard him mutter. She lay still. She heard his
boots take a few steps, pause, then walk out. The store's door chime
announced his departure.

  "You can get up now, he's gone," Azmid said a moment later. Angela
got to her feet. Azmid openly stared at her from behind the counter.
She covered her chest with her arms and shot him a "how dare you!"
look, but he kept staring anyway. Angela bent down to retrieve her
T-shirt and pulled it on. She turned to the aisle she'd been in before
the robbery; Azmid's eyes followed her ass.

  "Dammit! He took my bag!" Her book bag with her wallet, her shoes...
and her costume.

  Azmid scolded her. "Next time, if you're not going to kill him, stay
hiding. Jumping out like that, I'm surprised he didn't shoot me on the
spot. It's a good thing he's a professional."

  Some thanks, Angela thought. For what? her conscience chided. You
weren't prepared, and you blew it. You're lucky you didn't get yourself
and Azmid killed.

  "I'm sorry. What do you mean, professional?"
  "I mean he's robbed me before. Last year, when I worked the Quick
Mart on 69th. Now if you'll excuse me I have to call the police."
  "You mean you don't have one of those alarm button thingies?"
  "Are you crazy? And have the police show up right in the middle of a
robbery?"


  Angela rode home, angry at herself. She would never be caught
un-ready like that again.

  The gemstones on her wrists peeked out from the sleeves of her
baseball tee, and the ones on the straps of her shoes jostled from side
to side as she pedalled home, glinting in the long light of the late
afternoon.


  "Honey, Ricky called while you were in the shower. He said to call
him right away."
  "Why didn't you tell me that five minutes ago?"
  "I figured I'd let you get dressed before you talked to some boy."
  "Thanks, mom," Angela whined.

  "What's up, Ricky?"
  "It's Jim. He called me from his cell phone. They wailed on him
pretty bad."
  "Who?"
  "Dirk's buddies. They told him to call his friend Sapphire and get
her to meet him at the old bowling alley tonight at 8 or they'd wail on
him some more."
  Angela checked the clock. It was already 7:30. "How's she gonna get
there in time? Fly?"
  "I think being late is the point. I hate to say it, Angela, but I
think your friend getting involved just made things worse."
  "We'll see. Let me call her and see what she wants to do."


  This was just great. First a hold-up at the Quick Mart on the way
home, now this. Her plastic top and skirt were in the bag that got
snatched. As she raced around her room looking for something workable
to wear, she said to no one in particular, "Gosh, I got the message
about being prepared, no need to rub it in."

  She couldn't wear any of her school clothes from last year. Dirk's
friends might recognize her. They were too conservative and covered too
much anyway. She was all out of bodysuits, thanks to the way the
forcefield tended to eat through anything that covered her crotch or
her chest. "And the way you tended to rip them open when you got home,"
her conscience shamed her.

  At least she had a set of wings. She pulled them down from the back
of her door.

  She had to hurry! She didn't have time to be picky. There in the top
drawer, her black stretch-knit workout shorts and T-shirt. She grabbed
the wad of black fabric and threw it on the bed with her wings,
wristbands, and heels. She sat down in front of her dresser and quickly
made up her face. Foundation, thickened eyelashes, heavy eyeshadow,
black eyeliner, heavy rouge. 7:38pm. She was getting good at this.

  Angela pulled on her old sweats and flip-flops to get out of the
house. She couldn't let her mom see her going out in shorts and heels.

  "Mom, can I borrow the car?"
  "Oh, honey, I'm sorry, I start work at 9 tonight. If you want to drop
me off and pick me up when my shift is over, you can have it."
  "No, that's okay. I can take my bike and the bus."
  "Going out with friends?"
  "Yeah, meeting them at the arcade. Maybe we'll see a movie later.
Guess I better get going. Have a good shift, mom."

  Damn. She would have to get there under her own power.

  As soon as she got out of the house, she ran for the park on the
corner. She had to get changed and get going. Ducking behind a line of
shrubs, Angela peeled off her sweatshirt and spread it out on the
grass, then tossed the wad that would be her costume for the evening on
top of it. She began separating the pieces.

  "Uh-oh."

  These weren't her workout clothes.

  This was the hankerchief top and long skirt her best friend had
talked her into buying. She'd only worn it to school once. The top had
a nasty habit of flipping up in the breeze, and it was built for
someone less, well, built; the skirt was so long she'd kept stepping on
it, which pulled it down low on her hips and stretched it out. She
forgot she'd kept it. Or maybe her mom had rescued it from the trash;
she did that a lot. Of course, Angela's dirty clothes hamper was right
next to her trash basket. She'd have to separate them when she got
home...

  Well, she couldn't wear sweats -- covered she was nearly powerless.
She laid the top and skirt on top of the hedges as she stripped out of
her sweats. The sharp-tipped leaves pinned the clothes in place.

  Off came the bra -- couldn't wear it with the top. And she couldn't
not wear the top -- in her haste, she'd grabbed a sheer bra with
see-through cups. (Though truth be told that was just about all she
bought anymore.) She grabbed the top from the top of the hedge just
over her head. It seemed to be stuck on the leaves for a moment, then
snapped down toward her.

  On went the top. It hung from her neck like a bib, the sides tapering
to strings that met in a knot in the small of her back. The bottom
tapered to a point hanging in front of her navel. Angela smoothed it
out, brushing off a few prickly leaves. She grabbed the skirt; it too
seemed reluctant to leave the hedge, snagging in several places. She
tugged it free.

  Up shimmied the skirt. It was tighter than she'd remembered it,
hugging her hips well. At least she wouldn't be hitching it up all
night. She still stepped on the hem, though, until she slipped into her
spike-heeled mules. "All this time I just needed the right shoes,"
Angela mused. She tied on her wings -- dual capes of translucent fabric
that attached to her neck and wrists, forming drooping slit sleeves
like an oversized harem girl's outfit when her arms rested at her
sides. She tried to kneel to secure her shoes, but the restrictive
skirt stopped her. Hmm. Bunching it up around her she hitched it up to
get at the hem. She found the spot where she'd stepped on it before;
the smooth stretchy fabric was worn through near the edge from too many
brushes with pavement. Angela tugged, and tugged again. She heard a
satisfying rip. She tugged once more. That should do. She smoothed the
skirt back down and checked her handiwork. A straight tear right up the
middle to just above her knees. The material naturally parted slightly,
giving her much-needed freedom of movement. She kneeled to tie strings
under the soles of her shoes and over and around her feet, securing the
otherwise-slippery mules. She nudged her sweats and flipflops into a
neat pile underneath the edge of the shrubs, then pulled the tiara off
the top of the shrubs and settled it onto her head...

  The energy rush washed over her; she wobbled momentarily, then shook
her head clear. A quick check of wrists and ankles; her four gemstones
radiated clear blue, bright in the late dusk of the unlit park. The
numerous pinholes in the stretchy gauzey material caused by the sharp
leaves of the shrubs went unnoticed.

  Sapphire lifted off. She had trouble getting off the ground, but as
she wobbled forward the breeze caught her skirt and parted it away from
her legs; she felt her energy pick up with the exposure and gained
altitude and momentum. She didn't want to be late.

  Sapphire leaned forward, arms swept back, legs straight and feet
together. She'd never gone this fast before. She hadn't felt this much
wind since hanging off the back of Todd's Harley last summer. She felt
like a missile. The back of her skirt hem whipped and snapped and stung
her heels. The fabric of her windswept wings rhythmically rippled
against her ass. The day had been overcast, and the evening was turning
cool; she should be freezing up here, but she felt the familiar warmth
of her gemstones. They glowed brightly as she pushed herself forward.
All the while, the wind tugged at her top and skirt; the pinholes poked
by the sharp shrubs became short tears.


  "Seriously guys, my mom is gonna be wondering where I'm at."
  "I know, and we're really sorry about that, Jimmy. If you're lucky
this won't take much longer."
  "What time is it?" Jim asked. He jerked involuntarily when he
unexpectedly felt a hand grab his left wrist and twist it slightly.
  "Five after eight," a husky voice behind Jim said. Jim's wrist was
released. He relaxed against the light post. He didn't have much of a
choice -- his own belt bound his wrists together behind his back and
around the pole. He'd been there for almost a half-hour, as had the
five football players surrounding him.
  "Isn't it weird how it doesn't get dark until 8 o'clock?" the tall
skinny one sitting on the curb to his left noted. "I mean, I remember
when I was little I used to go to bed at 7, and the sun was still out
at 7 today." Everyone ignored the comment.
  "Your friend is late," said the one in front of Jim. He wore a blue
football jersey with orange numbers, 89. His mocha-skinned bald head
gleamed with sweat in the amber light of the sodium lamp. Jim didn't
know him, but thought because 89 was smaller than the rest of the angry
slabs of boy-beef surrounding him tonight that he was a running back.
Or maybe a wide receiver or something. Jim had never paid any attention
to football. Except to gawk at the players. 

  "Look, guys, I know how Dirk told you all what a... 'hottie' she was,
but I don't know her..."
  "Well, we know you're not fucking her!" the huge one behind Jim
interrupted. The others laughed. Someone jabbed Jim hard in the ribs;
he gasped.
  "Yeah, she's not your type," #45 shot. He wore shoulder pads under
his jersey. He always wore them. His name was Chad. Jim had actually
talked to Chad once...
  "Not manly enough," Tall Skinny joked. He wore a letterman jacket
whose sleeves were too short. He'd been on the swim team the year
before; last summer he'd had a growth spurt and he made the JV
basketball team, but the story went that his parents were too cheap to
buy him another jacket. He wore the too-small jacket as an excuse to
beat the hell out of people who dared make fun of it.

  "Yeah, well," Jim continued, "she just showed up that one time. I
haven't seen or heard from her since. Ricky hasn't either. I don't even
know if he knows how to get a hold of her. I don't think she's coming.
I'm really sorry, guys." He tried to maintain the thin veneer of
civility that the leader of the evening's adventure had established.
But his voice still wavered slightly with the fear that at any moment
the athletic thugs would drop the act and pound him. The huge one,
wearing white jersey #64, moved into Jim's field of vision. He was a
flabby mountain of menace.

  "I'm sorry too, Jim," said Raymond. Raymond stepped from Jim's left
very suddenly right in front of him. Jim looked up. Raymond flashed a
sad, mocking smile. His chest was inches from Jim's nose. Jim felt like
Raymond was crushing him with the sheer force of his presence. "We
really wanted to meet her. And I don't want to hurt you." He stepped
back. "We'll give her another ten minutes." The others were restless
but acquiesced when Raymond turned and gave each one a look. Then,
without warning, he spun around and karate-punched Jim in the solar
plexus.

  Jim gasped and coughed for air, his eyes bulging in panic and shock,
his body twitching and heaving, the light post quivering.

  "Jim won't last any longer than that," Raymond finished. His voice
was cold.


  Sapphire backed away from the edge of the roof where she'd been
standing. Raymond's punch took her by surprise. Up until that moment
he'd seemed almost nice to Jimmy, despite the smaller boy's captivity.
Now she didn't know what to think. Raymond was unpredictable. He was
dangerous. Never mind his four teammates. Up until that moment Sapphire
thought maybe this was just another high-school prank, another case of
the bullies scaring the nerd for a while just for laughs and then
letting him go. She'd witnessed that kind of thing enough times, where
the only goal of the intimidation was to see if the victim could be
scared enough to pee his pants.

  But this was different. This was serious. These muscle-heads intended
to hurt Jimmy. They were out for revenge.

  There were five football players down there. Five of them. Even the
team's kicker was bigger than her. Even in dim sodium lighting and from
twenty feet up, these boys looked huge. She could tell the only thing
these boys kicked was ass. How did this get so out of hand? 

  She remembered Dirk. Beating on Jimmy. Leveling her with a six-pack.
Dry-humping her. Collapsed in the street clutching his ribs. She didn't
mean to hurt him like that, but he hadn't exactly given her a choice...
and neither were his buddies now.

  Her heart beat rapidly as she tried to think; her breathing became
quick and shallow as her anxiety grew. 

  Nervous fingers played over the sapphire on her wrist. "Get a grip,"
she steeled herself. "They're just boys. Well, men. Whatever. They
can't touch me." Make sure they don't, a voice inside her said. Images
flashed through her mind, of her encounter with the three thugs in the
alley, and the park after that, and their place after that. She forced
those images out of her head. It wouldn't be like that this time. This
time she would be careful. The doubting voice returned, "last time it
was five stones against three punks; this time it's four stones against
five atheletes. Careful isn't the word."

  Returning to the edge of the roof, Sapphire took another look. Maybe
she could hit them from here. Dramatic entrances were for invulnerable
superheroines; she'd already burned... well, she didn't know how much
energy getting here. She wasn't feeling any of the signs of trouble
exactly, but her powers had failed her before and she didn't want to
take any unnecessary chances. A sneak attack wasn't exactly fighting
fair, but neither was five against one. Besides, girls don't fight fair.

  She crouched down to be less conspicuous. Her hand-split skirt draped
over one knee. Holes on the sides and back of the skirt, started by the
sharp leaves of the shrub near her house and lengthened to a by the
whipping of the wind on the way, tore open further as the tight garment
stretched over her kneeling form. Sapphire felt her breasts shift under
the tight top as she leaned forward on one hand; two small tears
extended to meet each other forming a keyhole on her chest. Her bikini
panties creeped up a bit between her cheeks.

  The plan was simple; knock all five of them clear, untie Jimmy, let
him run for safety while she kept the jocks at bay for a minute of two,
then make her own escape to the sky.

  The girl extended her other arm slowly, palm forward, drawing a
mental bead on the tall one...


  "Oww! Fuck!"

  Raymond looked over his shoulder; Scarecrow was sprawled out in the
driveway, holding a skinned elbow.
  "Quit screwing around, Scarecrow," Chad said from his seat on the
curb.


  Sapphire needed to put more into it; she'd only shoved Scarecrow five
yards or so, but at least he wasn't getting up quickly. She turned to
#45, making a subtle pushing motion with her outstretched hand.


  "Hey!" Chad yelped as he found himself violently shoved off the curb.
He landed hard on his shoulder, then was shoved again and again,
sending him tumbling across the parking lot. He finally managed to stop
himself some thirty yards away. "What the fuck?" he looked around, but
all he saw was the dumbfounded stares of three of his companions up at
the bowling alley entrance where he'd been moments before. Chad sat
back on his haunches, stunned, then began brushing himself off and
checking the scrapes on his arms. Marcus ran out toward him, and Tree
took a few lumbering steps as well, looking around confused.

  Without warning, Tree came crashing to the ground, apparently
tripping over... his own feet?

  Raymond tensed; his eyes darted around the parking lot. His body
flexed, balanced and ready; he slowly turned around, looking right
through Jim as he scanned for the threat. Instinctively, he stepped
closer to his captive, looking over his shoulder in quick glances to
judge the state of his crew.

  "Talk to me guys," he called out.


  Rats! Sapphire cursed. Raymond was too close to Jim. She couldn't hit
him from here. She looked out over the parking lot; Scarecrow was
already on his feet. She force-shoved him again; he staggered, falling
to one knee. "Fuck!" he cursed, looking about wildly for his invisible
attacker.

  It was now or never.

  Sapphire sprung from her crouch on the roof. For a horrifying moment,
she simply fell, the skirt draped over her legs damping her power; but
the air caught the skirt and lifted it, and she surged forward. She
brought her arms out and up to stabilize her descent. She extended her
right leg, pointing it to her desired landing spot, five yards to
Raymond's left, where Chad had been sitting. From there she could knock
Raymond away from Jimmy, toward Scarecrow...

  Raymond heard a flapping sound, like a flag in the wind. He looked up
to see a dark shape falling from the roof. Not falling, leaping. His
head turned to follow the object's path as it arced downward to his
left; dropping down into the sodium lamp illumination of the parking
lot, it looked like a person. Like a girl. "Shiiiiiit..." he breathed.

  Something was wrong; Sapphire's left leg was caught on something, she
couldn't extend it. She felt a tug on her waist as she tried to
straighten out; it was her skirt! The stiletto heel had poked right
through the back of the fabric as she'd knelt on the rooftop and now
she couldn't get it untangled. She heard and felt one, two, three rips
as she pumped her leg trying to get her foot free, the asphalt coming
up fast toward her...

  Her right heel came down first, the stiletto twisting to the side as
her foot planted solidly, snapping the retaining string. With her left
foot still caught up underneath her, Sapphire tumbled forward, coming
down hard on her right hand and collapsing onto her right shoulder and
hip. Her left leg kicked outward as she rolled, finally tearing free a
huge chunk of the skirt. Her tiara came loose, clattering to the
pavement next to her; she felt a cold flash run through her. She came
to rest on her back.

  Dirk hadn't been shitting them. The girl was real. She was a babe.
And she was crazy, jumping off a building.


   


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