A cry came from around the corner, “Rusty!”

That’d be me, Rusty Grotto. I told her to stay in the club, but did she ever listen? No, she didn’t. And to think, people referred to her as the brains of the operation.

Hoofing as fast as my 5’2" and 300 lbs could, I made for the alley, “Keep yer britches on, dollface! And that goes double fer whoever’s back there witcha!”

I rounded the corner on three goons backing my boss into a corner. She’s usually smarter than this, and she’s never much more help in a bruhaha. The tall one gave me the eye and smirked. It’s always the tall ones.

“So sweet,” he said, “That you’re so concerned about my britches.”

“I didn’t mean yer britches, nitwit. I meant…oh stuff it!” I never was one for talking. Come to think of it, occasional poor judgment aside, maybe it’s for good reason I wasn’t the brains of the outfit. “You need any of em talkin, honey?” That’s when they started laughing. She shook her head no, and they stopped.

Brass knuckles aren’t very humorous.