Chapter 1

I was walking home from elementary school, third grade, without a care except for my homework. My name is Nancy Kuan, and I am of Korean extraction. My father was once a high official in the North Korean counter intelligence establishment, and he had escaped to the USA with the aid of the CIA, etc. My mother, a doctor, was also brought to the USA by the CIA, and Dad spent three years in the depths of the CIA building telling everything he knew about the North Koreans, and that was a lot!

When the CIA finally decided that they had gotten everything from Dad that he knew, they moved them to NYC (New York City). That's where I was born, and I was going home from school on that fateful day. I was snatched by eight high school boys who called themselves the "Irish Mafia" and were irrational about their hatred for "chinks." They spent nearly four hours raping and otherwise abusing me. Before they threw me out, one of them decided to cut off my clit as the crowning feature of the day. He used a clasp knife that was much too large for the job, and he wound up making a bloody mess.

They threw me out onto the street, naked and bleeding from the crotch. I was crying and barely able to walk from the pain. A kindly shopkeeper took me in and called 911 for medical service. I was moved to the nearest ER (Emergency Room) where doctors and nurses worked over me to stop the bleeding and to assess the damage to my genitalia.

As it turned out, there was some scaring to my vagina, and the doctors did not know how to rate my future with that. Mother said nothing, as was her habit, but I knew that she would do all she could for me starting as soon as we got home. The damage to my clit was superficial. The boy had only cut away part of the hood and had never made contact with my clitoris. Later on, I was happy for that, but the news meant nothing to me at this time.

None of the rapists were smart enough to use a condom, so there was ample DNA evidence for use at a trial if the boys were ever caught. I have a nearly photographic memory for faces, so I was certain that I could spot the boys if I ever saw them again. Of course, the cops and the DA (District Attorney) had no interest in the words of an 8-year-old girl, so the case got lost in the files by the next day. Well, that made no difference to me; I was prepared to wait as long as necessary for my revenge, and I fully intended to extract it.

The first order of business when I got home was for my mother to start working on repairing my injuries. On the way home, we stopped by our doctor's office and my mother borrowed some things that she thought that she would need. She thoroughly examined me by means of a speculum and worked out a course of treatment. Mother thought that the scarring would be gone within six months if I cooperated with her, and I promised to do everything she asked of me. Between the two of us, we had the scarring of my vagina completely cleared up within the six months that she had predicted, and I was happy with that. The treatment was very uncomfortable on occasion, and down right painful on others, but I wanted to be back to normal by the time I got to high school. My friends were already talking about what went on between girls and boys, and I wanted to be ready when my turn came.

Once I was completely recovered physically from the rape, I talked my Dad into teaching me what I needed to know to protect myself against future rapes. He pointed out that boys and men were always going to be bigger than me, so I was going to have to be somewhat unconventional in my defense. When I got old enough, he would see about getting me a gun, but I was going to have to get by with lesser defenses until then.

Dad skipped the usual polite falderal taught at the public dojos. He went directly for the actual fighting stances, attacks, and defenses. He had found some protective armor for us to wear while we were working out, and it quickly became apparent that I was going to need all of the protection that I could get. He had converted a room in our house to a training dojo with the usual padding and other stuff. It was a good thing because he threw me around the room on that first day.

We only worked out for an hour that first day, and Dad apologized about the way he had been so rough with me. He insisted that he wanted me to understand that martial arts fighting was not a game and certainly not like what I saw on TV and in the movies. At first, I was a little pissed off at his explanation, but then I understood what he was getting at. I was putting my life on the line, and I had to know what to expect!

By the end of the week, I was able to dodge some of the kicks he threw at me, but I was a long time in being able to dodge his hands. We practiced religiously every day, and I began to advance significantly. Of course, I was still going to be banged around by someone bigger than me, and I had to learn to roll with the punches. That was exactly what Dad was trying to teach me, so he was full of praise whenever I managed to survive one of his attacks. I swear, I have never seen a person move as fast as my Dad did during our training sessions. I was really shocked when he said that he moved faster than that in a real fight, and he wanted me to be that good.

I was never bothered again when I walked home in the afternoons. I always made a point of walking with two or three of my friends, and they all knew what had happened to me. Dad helped me work out a plan for how to react if we were ever approached again. The essence of the plan was that we would run away if we could; otherwise, we would run to an open store and ask the proprietor to call 911. If that didn't work, then I was to attack the genitalia of our attackers. By now, I knew all of the tricks for causing maximum pain to those quarters. Well, I never had to try out any of those plans, but I was ready if the situation ever came up.

Middle school finally ended, and I was allowed into the hallowed halls of the high school. Man, what a bummer! The school was on its last legs and looked like a stiff breeze would tear off the roof and demolish the walls. The school looked great from the outside, but it was a basket case on the inside. There were even holes in the walls where people had broken through the plasterboard. Yeah, I know, since the Depression started three years ago, there was no money for even the most basic repairs. The girls' restrooms were a disaster area with half the toilets just looking for a chance to malfunction, and the lavatories were no better. I had heard that the situation was even worse around the world, but I was selfish enough to want my school cleaned up right now, if not sooner.

We went into the auditorium and were pummeled with platitudes by the school staff. Like most of the kids, I tuned them out after about half an hour. Eventually, they would get to something important, and then I would start paying attention. We had already received a packet of useful information from the school staff: things like which locker to use and where to find the lunchroom. The main thing they didn't tell us about was how to deal with the bullies, both male and female.

It seemed that HS 134 was an equal-opportunity bullying ground. The girl bullies generally did not bother the boys, but the boy bullies tried to intimidate everyone. I suspect that some of them even had teachers buffaloed. I was in the college prep line of study, so I was naturally flagged as an easy mark. I was hardly out of the assembly when I was approached by a girl who looked old enough to be a senior.

She said, "Okay, Newbie, hand over your lunch money. I am assessing a dollar a day from you, and I expect to be paid the moment you walk in the front door. I'll be waiting there for your contribution."

Chapter 2 »